


The Night

by Kingkiwi



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Awkwardness, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Emotional Baggage, Introspection, M/M, Organized Crime, Seokjin come save him from himself, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, angst muffin Namjoon, learning what it means to be human, references to offscreen violence, soul searching, starts as a mafia!au but turns into awkward suburban dorks!au, the tags seem ominous but there will be fluff I promise, this is not a straight line
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6344572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingkiwi/pseuds/Kingkiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A broker of deals and a killer, Namjoon must work up the courage to walk away from everything he's known for a chance at something better.</p><p>"The face looking back from the mirror is unfamiliar. Yes, they have the same eyebrows and nose and lips, but Namjoon is not looking back. Or perhaps it is truly Namjoon in the mirror and the one balancing on numb legs, chest heaving, is the impostor."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Just when I tried not to write another criminal au. Sigh. This is currently incomplete and I don't have a grand plan. The only end game I'm working toward is Namjoon/Seokjin and it'll be written as a collection of scenes from Namjoon's life.
> 
> I'm currently about halfway through writing what is turning out to be a long-ass addition to the Affinity series, so look forward to that :)

Namjoon is washing his hands, sleeves cuffed up to his elbows. The bathroom is pristine tile, alternating patters of cream and gold, and the sink is bone white. Everything’s too bright for this time of night. His suit jacket is outside on a coat hook, removed before business began to avoid the mess. 

The water is red. The sink is red. His hands are red. The soap smells like vanilla and coconut. 

The blood is beneath his fingernails, drying in the creases of his knuckles, staining his skin red. 

So, the usual.

Huffing, Namjoon pumps more soap into the palm of his hand and scrubs, stubby fingernails picking at the stubborn red lines on his fingers. His eyes catch on a rosy, sudsy mark left on the dispenser by the heel of his hand. 

The first word his mind conjures is “evidence,” but the cleaning crew will take care of it less than a minute after he leaves the bathroom. They never leave a trace behind: company policy. 

He drags his eyes back down to his hands, where the water is finally running clear. That was the last job of the night and now it’s time to party with his colleagues, who will be wondering where he is if he doesn’t hurry up. Namjoon’s hands are almost clean except for a stubborn line of dried blood across the center of his palm, creased into his lifeline and refusing to budge. 

Frustration is building, rumbling in his chest and beginning to close his throat. The blood won’t come off. It’s beneath his fingernails, wormed its way into his cuticles, dripping from the soap dispenser that teases at the edge of his vision. He scratches at his hand, feeling no pain as his palm turns pink and then bright red from irritation. 

And then finally it’s gone. His hand is clean. Namjoon twists the tap and revels in the shocking feeling of his hands going icy cold. 

He glances up at the mirror and freezes. Blood dots the gentle slope of his cheek and the graceful curve of his neck like flecks of dried paint. It’s still here. It’s still here. He can’t scrub it off. 

A stranger’s face stares out beneath the damning marks, cold and hungry. 

His hands jerk from the numbing spray; one grips the side of the sink while the other flies to the mirror. The stream of water gushes from the faucet unimpeded. 

The face looking back from the mirror is unfamiliar. Yes, they have the same eyebrows and nose and lips, but Namjoon is not looking back. Or perhaps it is truly Namjoon in the mirror and the one balancing on numb legs, chest heaving, is the impostor. He watches his reflection, completely dissociated, as a wet finger moistens and smears the blood across the reflection’s cheek and forehead, creating shaky crescent, a brand. He feels no touch and wonders at the carnivorous eyes staring back. 

_What are you?_

A sharp rap on the door. “Sir?”

Namjoon startles and drops his hand from the mirror, leaving dripping trails in his wake. 

“Just a minute.” 

But he suddenly realizes the sink is splashed with red, like pale watercolor. The palm of his hand is red, the soap dispenser is red. The cheek, _his_ cheek is red. 

It’s all blood.

Now, this is a fact he knew quite well prior to entering the bathroom. In fact, he was complicit in and even in charge of ordering the blood to be spilt in the first place. This was not something he’d had a problem with in a long, long time. 

Only now Namjoon finds himself scrubbing at his skin like its poisoned. His fingernails leave a patchwork of raised, red tracks over the soft flesh of his cheek and forehead as he scratches at the blood. The sink is next, frantically mopped with too many paper towels. His jab at the soap dispenser sends a stream of shimmering white soap to the floor, but the red stain is gone, hidden away in the crush of brown paper towels.

Namjoon’s sweating around the collar and panting, staring wildly at the still-running faucet and avoiding the mirror at all costs.

“Sir? The other are ready to see you, at your convenience, of course.” The unerringly polite and deferent voice gives Namjoon the urge to gag. It is all so wrong: the blood, the normality, the _routine_ of it. 

A trembling fist turns off the water. Refusing to look into the condemning mirror, Namjoon wipes his damp face on his sleeve. He half believes he’ll see the blood tattooed across his face if he looks again. Hell, even if he never sees his reflection for the rest of his life, the sight is already burned into his mind’s eye. He releases a deep breath and braces himself for the interaction ahead. 

He’s being ridiculous. He needs to calm down and be himself. No signs of weakness allowed: company policy. 

He reaches for it, for the calm certainty and well-practiced apathy. It flutters, elusive for a moment and he’s afraid everything will fall apart, but then he snags it like a netted butterfly. 

Everything settles back into place like a cloak. It’s heavy. It’s dark. His heart slows.

This is no time for a crisis of conscience. There is business to be completed, celebrated. Jiho would hurt himself laughing if he were privy to this little bathroom meltdown. It’s disgraceful, really. 

Something in the back of his mind wonders which part of his life is truly disgraceful, but he’s spent much of his younger years silencing those errant thoughts. It’s not difficult to do so again. 

“Shall we?” Namjoon says briskly, letting the bathroom door thump closed behind him. The man outside is holding his jacket. Namjoon slips it on in one fluid motion. The tailored lines fall into places across his broad shoulders and around his waist as he carefully buttons the front. This is familiar, good. Confidence and armor restored, he stalks down the hallway. 

The underling struggles to keep up with Namjoon’s long strides, but manages to zip around him and open the door just as he arrives. 

“Ah, so The Night returns!” the men and women inside immediately catcall. “What do you have for us?”

“I bet he sang like a bird.”

“How do you always manage to stay so clean?”

“No one escapes The Night!”

Face as smooth and impassive as a stone, Namjoon “The Night” enters the room, preparing himself to interact pleasantly with these people he knows as colleagues and even friends. Everyone’s eyes are too bright, their laughter too loud. For a split second, he legitimately believes that each of them has been replaced by a look-alike copy, pretending and fake, fake, fake. Everything is crisp and vibrant, moving too quickly.

No. It’s him that’s changed. 

With slightly stiff, deliberate motions, Namjoon settles into the free chair, clamps one hand around the armrest, smiles, and begins to speak.

It’s bizarre how everything has been tipped on its head.

By the time he’s alone in his bedroom, in his boxers and swathed in a heavy blanket, the late hours are long behind him. He stares through the window, brain too quiet and numb to be dazzled by the persistent lights of the city. 

Before his eyes, The Night beings to soften, lighten, and slip into the brilliant, fresh colors of the dawn.


	2. The Escape

Two wallets, one with his real ID and one with two burner IDs that have never been used.

$5,000 cash, broken up and hidden in the wallets and in various places upon his person. 

His favorite pair of sunglasses.

Every single bespoke suit is quietly hanging the dark cavern of his closet. The credit cards remain neatly stacked inside a desk drawer, sharing space with a sleek cellphone (memory wiped) and a similarly styled laptop (also wiped). The infamous bullet-resistant vest is stowed away in the trunk at the end of the bed. Each of the three handguns he’s owned along with their holsters and ammunition are locked in a safe in the wall. The combination is already half forgotten. 

In the dim light of the bedroom, Namjoon can just make out his reflection in the full-size mirror on the wall. The simple blue t-shirt, black sweatshirt, and baggy, gray sweatpants are odd and somewhat ungainly. He found them deep in the back of his dresser and the garments don’t fall into the usual crisp lines he’s used to with his suits. Though the reflection is dim, he’s more of a phantom than he’s ever been. The prominent tattoos that crowd for space on his arms and crawl up his collarbone and neck have disappeared beneath strategically placed band-aids and his purposefully arranged sleeves. 

His eyes wander up away from his chest to pick out the darker eyebrows and the pits that are his eyes in the dark, but Namjoon jerkily turns away. One day. Today is not that day. 

With these things –the wallets, money, shades, and the clothes on his back- Namjoon slips from his room, down the hallway, and out the front door. No doubt the cameras that blanket the complex will catch him leaving, but once he disappears, it won’t matter.

The night air is arm and balmy, slightly stifling in his sweatshirt. The wallets are bulging and awkward with one in each pocket. 

Namjoon begins to walk.

The city is completely different when not surrounded by two armed body guards and the protection of a suit or stiff bullet-resistant vest. Vulnerability is strange to him, something he’s feeling strongly now thanks to his clothes, lack of a trusty firearm, and no cellphone. 

It’s nice, he decides, listening to his footsteps crunch across the occasional stick or patch of gravel. For the first time in as long he can remember, the beauty of the moon calls his attention to the velvety dark sky. It’s a silver dollar, high up and bright enough he can nearly see his shadow on the sidewalk. 

Forever. From this moment on, he will have forever to look at the moon instead of over his shoulder. 

Footsteps.

His whole body tenses, coils like a spring. Is he willing to kill to escape this place? Faces flit across his mind, some more acceptable losses than others. His hand swipes across his cheek, remembering.

“Namjoon.” It’s said quietly with a tone of calm, trusting inquiry. 

He turns. The sound of his first name is odd, but he shouldn’t be surprised. The man who’s caught him is Min Yoongi, a member Namjoon has been personally training to take a high position in the group a year or two from now. The sleepy bastard has always been more observant than he lets on. 

“Yoongi.”

A slight breeze ruffles his hair, but it’s already askew and he has no one to fix it for. There’s no image to maintain, no one to impress anymore. The second his beat-up sneakers left the compound the required protocol fell away, stripped by the night breeze and the pale glow of the moon. 

Yoongi steps closer. This hour of the night and he’s still clad in slacks and a dress shirt. “Where’s your detail?” he asks. Namjoon’s unusual appearance has clearly perturbed him. Yoongi needs to clamp the lid on his expressions and body language or he won’t last. 

Namjoon’s eyes bore into Yoongi. He squares his shoulders. For someone so young, the other man has cultivated a dark, ensnaring presence that Namjoon refuses to fall into. The brief nakedness of being without his suit and guns from earlier is back with a vengeance and his body immediately compensates by looming over Yoongi as best as he’s able.

It doesn’t matter, in the end. He’s not turning back. 

“My detail is not here.” His words are clipped. “You shouldn’t be here either.”

To his credit, Yoongi only crumples a little under the weight of his substantial glare. “Where are you going?” he challenges, swaying backward almost unnoticeably.

“I’m going out.”

“Out?”

_“Out.”_

It’s slow, but Namjoon can see the true meaning of his words gradually seep into Yoongi’s consciousness. Just as the younger man is about to speak, Namjoon takes a sharp step into his space, crowding him back. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget you saw me tonight.” His voice is harsh and direct. 

“But the cameras…” Yoongi protests vaguely, thrown off balance and badly hiding his bewilderment. 

“Erase them or tell everyone I was gone before you could catch me. It doesn’t matter.” Namjoon presses a hand into Yoongi’s shoulder and gives him a gentle shove. “We won’t be seeing each other again.”

Like he’s been nailed to the ground, Yoongi watches with wide eyes as Namjoon walks away, a stranger in body and mind.

Namjoon feels the stare on his back. It’s the final weight he must shed to discover if he’s strong enough for this, strong enough to walk away.

One step, two. Three, four, five, and he drags his eyes up from the sidewalk. He’s leaving with his head held high. Buildings loom before him and he can picture the complex getting smaller and smaller behind him, swallowed up by shadows that are never fully eradicated no matter the number of spotlights. 

He turns the corner and the phantom fingers of his former home disappear all at once like a switch has been flipped. Namjoon’s legs want to shake, but he’s spent too long controlling every facet of his body to allow it. Instead, he keeps walking and walking and walking away from everything he’s known for the past fifteen years. 

The idling taxi he eventually stumbles upon is almost unreal, like he’s unwittingly wandered into a movie. After brief negotiation with the mellow driver, the cab flows down the highway in an easy rush and deposits him upon the deserted sidewalk outside the airport. 

The building is cavernous and familiar. One last look at the quiet streets is enough to propel him inside and approach the nearest staffed ticket counter. 

“When’s your next flight?” He barely manages to sound polite.

The ticketing agent only blinks once in surprise before her customer service training kicks in. “Where are you flying to?” 

“Anywhere. Wherever the next flight out of here is going,” he replies. 

Her skeptical look is almost completely masked, but Namjoon catches it and smiles grimly to himself. To her credit, she gamely types into the computer and doesn’t ask any more questions. “We have a direct flight to Sarkosa boarding in ten minutes.”

“That in the south?”

“Four hours straight south.” She smiles, half-sincerely.

Namjoon pulls the wallet with the burner IDs from his pocket. “Sign me up.”

Freedom costs $375 cash.


	3. The Bus

Sarkosa is dusty and hot this time of year. When it’s not dusty and hot, it’s dusty and uncomfortably warm. 

As Namjoon slowly pushes through the airport doors, the heat of the place scorches into his lungs. The sunglasses are a godsend and his pants are already hell. He strips off his sweatshirt and the oven-like air immediately bakes his bare arms. It’s refreshing. The damp and gloom he’s used to is nowhere to be found. The sun is a spotlight, blasting everything with light and chasing away the shadows. It feels clean. 

Another taxi with a thankfully standoffish cabbie drops him at the nearest department store, where Namjoon wanders among the racks like a lost child. The overly enthusiastic air conditioning system has the store chilled to the temperature of an industrial freezer and Namjoon’s sweat is frozen. He rubs his arms for warmth and tries to find the men’s department. He’s not completely incompetent; he knows how to shop, but he hasn’t been to a mall in a long time. No one here is going to measure his inseam for a pair of denim shorts.

Namjoon slips into his new clothes in the dressing room. He can see himself from the neck down in one of the many conveniently-placed mirrors. The body clad in a graphic t-shirt and khaki shorts is unrecognizable. He hasn’t worn shorts in longer than he can remember. His legs feel different. Vulnerable. Naked.

He’ll be buying the shorts, he thinks. 

Namjoon laughs when he pulls a baby-blue t-shirt that says, “Meows it going?” with a picture of a kitten off the sale rack. It’s immediately added to the pile of purchases.

Despite his discomfort, it doesn’t take long to pick out a few changes of clothes, a backpack, and toiletries while avoiding any and all contact with the store employees. It feels like their eyes are following him. They’re judging him, how he looks, how he walks, and Namjoon finds himself judging them back. His eyes always dart to the back of their pants or beneath their arms to pick out the tell-tale bulges of concealed holsters.

Of course they’re not packing heat, he admonishes himself. Retail hasn’t gotten that bad over the past few years.

He returns to the desert-like heat and blinding sun with his whole life shoved into one backpack.

There aren’t any taxis outside and Namjoon has no phone or number with which to call one. As his complete isolation and helplessness dawns on him, he stands on the sidewalk with the sun beating down, numb. There is no Bentley and no driver on call. He has nowhere to live and no way to make money after he runs out of his emergency cash. He doesn’t know the first thing about job interviews or renting an apartment, though he knows it can’t be that different from interrogating and evaluating contacts and negotiating deals. 

Despite being a functioning goddamn adult for years, the rug has been pulled out from under him and he’s having trouble finding his footing. 

During this bourgeoning internal crisis, a mud-spattered bus pulls up to the curb in a cacophony of screeching brakes. Namjoon glances up only now realizing he’s standing beneath a bus stop sign. He looks back to the bus and its sleepy-looking driver. Shrugging, he gets on.

It’s humbling to realize that The Night, the inescapable force and haunter of nightmares, _doesn’t know how to ride the fucking bus._

Yeah, that’s right. A couple of ten-year-olds in the front rows are sniggering while the bus driver slowly explains the fee and how to signal the right stop, not that he knows one stop from another. 

Feeling the warm burn of embarrassment, Namjoon slinks down the aisle and drops into an empty seat near the back. The window buzzes against his forehead as the dry scenery slips by. 

The night he left, only last night though it’s forever ago, Namjoon just wanted to get away. He was panicking, practically delusional. He sure as hell wasn’t thinking about housing or bus passes or how weird shorts feel. He doesn’t know how to be normal, something that’s becoming increasingly clear with every minute that passes. 

_I don’t know if I can do this._

The kids from the front of the bus are peeking back at him, hands clutching at the top of the seats. They seem to sense something the adults around them are too world-weary to pick up on. Curious young eyes pick him apart, ask him what he’s doing and why he’s here and why he’s so strange. 

Namjoon pretends he doesn’t see them. Then he whips his head around and meets their eyes. The three children shriek in surprise and duck into their seats, hardly hearing their father’s admonishment over their giggles. 

Unable to stop himself from smiling, he turns back to the window and closes his eyes. To his displeasure, shadowy wolfish grins are waiting for him, as is Yoongi’s uncertain expression against the backdrop of the compound and the red, red lines of blood encrusting every knuckle. 

He picks up his forehead and lets it thump against the window. He has to do this. There’s no going back, not now. Is the feeling in the pit of his stomach despair? Grief for what the comfort and security he’s abandoned? It seems wrong to miss that life, but it was so much easier. Now he’s on a bus to nowhere.

_But._

But there are kids here. The kids aren’t afraid to laugh at him. There’s an old lady and her husband at the front of the bus, a tired mom, a young man in a snap-back and expensive sneakers. They look bored, tired, content, or impatient, but they’re not afraid. They’re not pretending, and they’re not begging for mercy. They’re consumed with their own lives, ignoring him, not even aware he exists. Namjoon couldn’t be more pleased. 

It’s a different kind of satisfaction than he’s used to, lighter maybe. 

_I’ve got this._


	4. The House

_I don’t got this._

He’s standing in front of a slightly dumpy house, key clenched in a sweating hand. This is his house. Well, the dirty white siding, empty flower beds, and cracked front porch aren’t his per say, but they’re kind of his as long as he can afford rent. It’s a far cry from his penthouse back home, but it’s kind of wonderful in its own beat up way.

Once he opens the door and steps inside, this place will be home. He’ll be living here, alone, without Yoongi to look after or the other bosses to answer to. There won’t be any underlings to drive him to the most expensive tailor in town or a trusted secretary to screen his calls. Hell, he doesn’t even have a cellphone. Dinner won’t be made by a grizzled old chef who’s been in the business longer than Namjoon’s been alive. He’ll have to make his own dinner and do his own damn dishes, and is it weird to say that he’s looking forward to it, but is terrified at the same time?

Taking a deep breath, Namjoon slides the key into the lock, gives it a twist, pushes the door open, and steps inside. 

It smells like fresh paint and the beige living room carpet is slightly dingy. According to the landlord, it’s a small house with two bedrooms, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a joke of a living room. There’s no furniture to be seen, the walls are bare and white, and the floor creaks beneath his feet. The air conditioning hasn’t been running since the house has sat empty for a number of months, so the air’s warm and stifling. 

Namjoon thinks he loves it. 

He immediately explores every nook and cranny, which doesn’t take long, and picks out a bedroom. It’s the one with a double window on one wall and a single on another, bathing the room in golden sunlight. In no time his backpack is unpacked: his sweats and t-shirt are set on a shelf in the closet; the toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, single roll of toilet paper, and hair bleach goes in the bathroom, and the trashy romance novel from the airport quick-mart goes on the windowsill in his new room.

In five minutes, he’s unpacked and sitting in the middle of the empty living room, staring at the walls. 

It’s all so surreal. This empty house. He’s going to have neighbors. They might invite him to dinner. Maybe he’ll get a dog. The realization that he can now do whatever he wants and the consequences are unlikely to be fatal for anyone sends a giddy feeling twisting through his stomach. He can’t contain the feeling and thumps his fist to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut and grinning like he rarely let himself before. 

“I’m out. I’m out. I’m out and I’m never going back.”

He flops backward onto the carpet spread eagle, eyes tracing abstract patterns in the ceiling. 

“I’m going to eat macaroni and cheese.”

Namjoon lies on the floor for quite a while. Every time his mind tries to bring up the no doubt dire consequences of his flight if any of his old compatriots ever catch up with him, he very determinedly stares at the ceiling and thinks about furniture. 

He could go to IKEA. He’s never been to an IKEA before. The foreign-sounding names intrigue him, as does the prospect of fully assembling a piece of furniture. No doubt he’ll be shit at it, but it doesn’t matter if he fails. What are the repercussions? A crooked bookshelf? His chair collapsing out from under him? A sore ass? There’s no one here to notice or punish him. 

Hell, Namjoon can strut around naked if he wants to. The idea’s tempting. He gets as far as sitting up with a hand on the bottom hem of his t-shirt before he remembers there aren’t any curtains. Giving the hypothetical neighbors the scare of a lifetime should probably be avoided, especially if he wants to be invited over for dinner eventually. 

Furniture. Right.

He needs a table, a mattress, and a chair, for starters. A shape forms in his mind, squat, of dark wood, and covered in books. He places the imaginary coffee table in the middle of the living room and conjures up a cushioned recliner to go behind it. It’ll be green or brown and overstuffed. Maybe he’ll fall asleep in it with a book balanced on his legs while the light from the neighbor’s kitchen shines in through the east window. 

That reminds him of the book he bought at the airport. The guy at the register looked at him suspiciously for buying a five dollar book with a one hundred dollar bill. He even pulled out a skinny marker and swiped it across the face to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit. The bill was real of course. 

Namjoon crawls down the short hall and into his new bedroom, feeling silly and trying his damndest not to care. No one is watching. No one is here. He is alone.

The book is waiting on the window sill where he left it. It’s a thick paperback called The Candle Maker’s Daughter, the cover of which features a ponytailed, shirtless man more bear than human kissing a freckled woman in a low-cut bodice. According to the testimonial on the front, it’s “A unique, sensual story” that’s “surprisingly historically accurate.”

The short summary on the back filled him with such horrified amusement when he picked it up that he couldn’t force himself to return it to the shelf. 

_Hans has braved every conceivable danger during his secret adventures outside Germany, but he knows no one is in greater peril than a pretty servant in the employ of his lecherous father. And the only way to protect her is to pretend to be her lover._

_Behind his bedroom door, their chaste friendship blooms into a connection more erotic than the stories in any forbidden book. But desire, even love, may not be enough to overcome the forces society has arrayed against them…_

Namjoon fell asleep an hour into his flight, meaning he only got as far as Hildegard, the pretty servant, cushioning Hans’s manly head in her lap and helping him take a drink of water because he was too injured to move.

He returns to lying on the floor, book in hand. He pulls out the airport boarding pass that doubles as a bookmark and settles in to read until it’s too dark to see. With any luck, Hans will up and about, ready to ravish before the sun slips below the horizon.


	5. The Neighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, five chapters in we get a glimpse of the elusive other half of the ship XD

Namjoon hasn't spoken to anyone in three days. He's not sure if this is worrisome or an accomplishment, but he takes comfort in it all the same. 

It seems having a place of his own where he answers to no one and is responsible for only himself has awakened a strong desire for hermitage that he was unaware existed. Being talked to by the bus driver feels like a lifetime ago and he almost can't believe he managed a civil conversation.

He has no desire for human interaction because he has nothing to say and no way to relate. Not to mention the fewer people who speak to him, the less identifiable he is to anyone who comes looking.

After a semi-disastrous trip to the grocery store, his cupboards have gone from empty and gathering dust to filled with an assorted collection of items that don't require much, if any, cooking. Most meals consist of macaroni and cheese from a box, ramen, a few pre-made dinners, and peanut butter sandwiches. While not the delicious, catered meals he was used to back at the complex, his stomach doesn't complain and it brings a warm flare of satisfaction that he did it by himself.

It pained him, the first few days. He was ashamed that he felt proud and accomplished after completing such simple tasks. He felt like a child, and still does at times. He hasn't been injured, he's not traumatized. It's not like he was trapped in a basement, never allowed to speak or see the sun.

What happened to The Night? That confident, strong, and ruthless man? Perhaps he never existed in the first place. All along, Namjoon was nothing but a figure of straw, thin and fake. Now he's been ripped apart, left to desperately pull the shreds of his former self around him into something resembling a functioning person. 

At 27, Namjoon should know how to run his life. Hell, he's run other people's lives. And ruined them. He did it for years. 

And yet the thought of going out there and staring people in the eyes, of looking into the mirror and seeing the wreck of a human he's become is enough to make him want to shut the door, curl up in the middle of his empty bedroom, and never come out again. 

So when he's out checking his mailbox in the midday heat, as he likes to do despite only getting junk mail addressed to CURRENT RESIDENT, and a man looks up from the next box over and waves, the junk mail crumples in Namjoon’s clenched fist.

His expression immediately deadens so his mouth is flat and straight. Unable to bring an arm up to return the wave, Namjoon can only offer a quick, stiff bow, like an agitated bird pecking at the dirt. Without bothering to see how this is received, he scurries back inside. 

Collapsing against the closed door, the few flyers fall to the floor with a quiet rustle while he tries to catch his breath. 

There's a neighbor. 

He curses himself for losing his cool, silently chanting _I'm better than that, I'm an adult for crying out loud. I'm not afraid of other people._ Mentally shying away from the word "afraid," he swoops down to grab the junk mail and retreats to his bedroom.

The presence of The Neighbor weighs on his mind for the rest of the day. He keeps away from the naked windows, wishing for the first time that the house had curtains. Lunch (mac and cheese) and dinner (ramen) are eaten in the living room with a plastic fork, straight out of the only pan on the premises. Having lost the freedom of staring out the windows, he tries his best to prop The Candle Maker's Daughter open with one hand and eat with the other. He only has to rescue a stray noodle from the carpet twice. 

The safe bubble of the house has been broken. The knowledge that The Neighbor is fifty feet away, eating cereal or showering or _talking to another neighbor_ keeps him on edge, presses on the windows and his shoulders and the backs of his hands, and his romance novel and his brain. 

As night falls Namjoon curls up in the corner with his book, where strapping protagonist Hans has just escaped the king's men and is again seeking refuge with the beautiful Hildegard. She pulls him into her arms, his hands go straight to her bottom, and things get nasty right there on the floor. 

If only it were that easy. Hans and Hildegard instinctively know what the other is trying to say. They're always on the same page. 

Still, the fictional groaning and thrusting quickly lose his interest, so Hans and Hildegard are retired back to their window sill and Namjoon goes to the bathroom to get ready for bed. 

One of the few shirts he owns is permanently draped over the mirror above the sink. On his first night in the house, he wasn't thinking about the obvious fact there would be a mirror and almost threw a punch into it in a rush of reactionary adrenaline. Now it's covered like he's some tragic creature from Beauty and the Beast, but no matter how much he mocks himself for it, his hands never reach up to pull it down. 

Namjoon sits on the edge of the bathtub and scrubs at his teeth, thinking about The Neighbor. He was too panicked earlier to process, but the more he knows about the people around him the better off he'll be. He needs to be prepared just in case anyone from the organization comes poking around. 

Thinking back, the neighbor was probably around Namjoon’s age with brown hair swept to the side and a cane, of all things. 

That only makes him feel a little bit better. The Neighbor isn’t likely to be a threat if he has some sort of permanent injury. It’s an uncharitable thought, but Namjoon can outrun him if it comes down to it.

The offhand thought that maybe a neighbor would invite him over for dinner seems foolish now. Like he could do that. Like he could have that after all of the things he's done. 

Namjoon rinses, returns his toothbrush to the medicine cabinet, and wipes his damp hands on the t-shirt. It's not like there are any towels.

He doesn't know what time it is, but cool darkness blankets the houses that stretch down the street in a gentle curve. A few stars persistently shine through the overwhelming lights of the suburb. He never looked up at the sky when he was in the complex. In such a short time, the memories of his years there have grown shadowed and visceral, small, shrunken, hot with blood. 

Yoongi, the only name that pains him, is nothing but ghostly eyes shining silver.

He's being morbid and overly emotional again. 

Grunting, Namjoon shucks his shorts, but leaves his shirt on. Like the previous nights, he curls up on the barren floor, pulls his sweatshirt over his legs as a makeshift blanket, and hopes he doesn't dream. 

He dreams of a neighbor inhumanly tall and strange whose radiance burns into his walls and skin, filling the hallways with indomitable light.


	6. The Walk

The landscape of Sarkosa isn't barren by any means, but it's made up of similar shades of hunter green and dusty brown repeated over and over in cacti, succulents, and spiny bushes. All the plants, spare the odd tree or patch of scraggly grass, look like they'd kill a man if he accidentally tripped into one. Spiny. Armored. A danger to all who come in contact with them. Namjoon can relate.

He stands in the threshold of his front door, propping the screen door open with one sneaker. 

He's going on a walk. 

The Neighbor is nowhere in sight (he checked twice) and there's no other movement disturbing the lazy heat that could probably fry an egg on the concrete. He's half-tempted to try, but the fridge is disappointingly lacking in eggs. 

When the landlord drove Namjoon to the house for the first and last showing of the day, he was too busy pretending to be normal to pay much attention to the neighborhood. Now that he's established, it's time to get the lay of the land. 

Or it would be, but Namjoon’s having trouble getting out of the house. Like literally physically forcing his stupid legs to take the final step onto the porch, then continue down the sidewalk. The main problem here is that people will able to see him and he'll have little to no control over it. This isn't home turf anymore, and he's not on top.

The air-conditioning is escaping in icy bellows against his calves while sweat beads on his upper lip and hairline. He has to make a decision if only to spare his wallet from the upcoming electric bill. A third check proves that without a doubt, The Neighbor is tucked away in his house or doing whatever it is that people do early on a Thursday afternoon in the near-desert. It's unlikely he's on a walk with that bad leg. 

Rolling his eyes self-deprecatingly, Namjoon makes sure his key is in his pocket, steps onto the porch, and closes the door behind him. He's dressed in what he tries not to think of as his normal person disguise: jean shorts and the powder-blue kitten shirt. 

The sun is beating down like it holds a grudge as he begins to walk mechanically, forcefully down the three steps, across the corner of the yard, which is made up of rocks and sharp-leafed bushes, and along the sidewalk gently curving into the distance.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Namjoon covertly stares at The Neighbor's house as he passes by. It’s quiet and still. White, opaque curtains obscure the interior of the living room. He’s not sure why he wishes he could see inside.

To his horror, he’s still staring when the gauzy curtain flicks to the side and a knowing eye looks through the gap. 

Startled, Namjoon whips his head around and hurries on, not knowing if the judgmental eyes are burning into his back. His face is hot with embarrassment, shame and the 100˚F heat. The Neighbor is none of his business and they don’t deserve to have a person like him creeping on them.

Again, he makes himself promise that he’ll keep to himself and not bother anyone. 

With no music and no company to distract him, Namjoon inspects the houses as he strolls by. When his landlord, Mr. Park, initially drove him through the neighborhood, Namjoon’s only impression was that all the houses looked the same. Some, like his, were shabbier than others, but they were all old, squat, and box-like. Now, given the chance to inspect them at a walking pace, the differences and peculiarities slowly emerge like shy animals pleased with the attention.

This particular house is pale pink, like a conch shell scoured by the ocean, with a bay window protruding from the right side. The house at the end of the block is sporting a square of aggressively healthy grass that glows like crushed emeralds in the sun. It's a wonder it grows that well in such an arid, stifling environment. The owners must have a lot of love and money to coax the little patch of green to life. 

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he wonders what people will think of his house when they walk by. They'll notice the lack of curtains and see straight to the blank, empty walls. They won't see a couch or a family spending time together in the living room. There isn't any grass, and far from being white, the painted siding is grayish orange with dust and dirt like a craggy, sad face.

He's not sure what he wants them to see instead. Scrubbing the siding seems pointless, and grass is out of the question. Curtains are probably the first order of business. He can't remember if Mr. Park said anything about painting the walls. Well, how about he paints them anyway? Something other than white...or red. Maybe a nice navy blue. Orange? Nah, too eye-searing. He'll have to think on it. 

When the street ends, Namjoon picks a random direction and keeps walking, not sure where he'll end up. 

"This is weird," he says aloud. 

Weird that no one is looking at him or telling him what to do or waiting for him to tell them what to do. Weird that he's all alone. Nice, though.

After six or seven turns, Namjoon is wishing he was smart enough to bring a bottle of water and he's not quite sure how to get back home. He dawdles on the corner of the next block and glances up at the street signs, vaguely miffed that none of the names sound the least bit familiar. Should he turn back and try to find his street or carry on into the maze of almost-suburban housing, possibly to die amongst the tidy, square dwellings, with their cacti, rocks, and spiny bushes? Would his body fit in with the gleaming cars, basketball hoops, and bicycles abandoned on the front sidewalk? 

No better time to find out. 

Namjoon takes another left and walks and walks until he's half certain his feet have taken him in a wobbly, oblong, circle and the familiar shabby white house will be just around the next corner. 

It's not. 

Instead, he's pleasantly surprised to see a low, sprawling brick building and a neat little park rise from a break in the houses. At first it makes no sense, but he quickly realizes it's got to be a middle or elementary school. 

The park is empty, which he doesn't expect considering it's early afternoon. 

No, it makes sense after all. It's summer break. 

Before he's aware of it, he's crossed the street on a direct course for the park equipment. Four black swings hang limply from their chains, wilted and still in the heat. It's been a long time since he last played on a playground, more than fifteen years. He doesn't have any siblings, so no nieces or nephews to take out on a balmy spring day and exhaust themselves playing tag or tackling each other down the slides. 

As always, he keeps a vigilant eye out. If there happen to be any children, he'll keep walking past as if that's been his intention all along. If the place is empty, he's got his sights set on those damn swings. 

Within a few minutes, his tennis shoes crunch through the gravel of the playground. Three feet in and he's already got a sharp rock wedged in his shoe, stabbing the sole of his foot with every step. Namjoon just kicks it to the toe of his shoe and keeps walking, enjoying the way the gravel shifts underfoot. It's a bit like walking on the beach, something else he hasn't done in too long.

Stupidly, perhaps, he stands in front of the swing for a sweltering minute. His shins are sweating, it's so hot. Wiping his hands on his khaki shorts, Namjoon carefully arranges himself in the swing and sinks into the flexible plastic seat. It's just wide enough that the chains don't pinch his hips and the black seat is so hot from the sun that he can feel the warmth instantly seep through his shorts. When his tongue swipes his lip it's salty and the chains are on just this side of too hot to grab. 

Settling his hands in his lap for now, Namjoon gently kicks his legs back and forth to gain some momentum. Despite not having touched a swing in more than fifteen years, the effective childhood technique comes back like it never left. Everyone knows how to swing, Namjoon included. That's at least one way he's as unremarkable as everyone else. 

In no time, he's flying back and forth, smiling at the wobbly, curling sensation that overtakes his stomach at the top of the arc. He had to grab the chains or risk falling off entirely and, after a bit, the heat of the metal has ramped down from "a hot stove" to "a steering wheel that's been sitting in the sun." The sky is immense in this deserted desert city, stretching away and around the earth in a fiercely blue dome. Namjoon trains his eyes on it and doesn't let go, swinging back and forth, back and forth. Sweat gathers on his lower back and trickles down until it hits the top of his shorts and soaks in.

Awkwardly, he realizes he might start crying. All the pressure in his head is draining toward his eyes, which are prickling painfully. 

There are worse things to be than a grown man crying at a public park (he knows quite a few off the top of his head), and he can almost let himself go there except that while he's been lost, someone snuck up on him. Multiple someones. There's a loud chatter of young voices approaching his position at a concerning speed.

Blinking rapidly, Namjoon drags his stare away from the sky and down to the gravel and grass. Two girls, probably about seven or eight, are streaking toward the swings, whooping and hollering while a man in his late 20s is trailing behind with his hands in his pockets.

Losing some of his momentum, Namjoon watches them approach while trying not to look like he's watching. He hates how suddenly self-conscious he's become. An adult hanging out by himself in the park is weird. Like "I'm looking for children to abduct" weird. 

Before he can come to a stop and beat a hasty retreat, the girls are already upon him. 

"Hi!" the first one chirps, completely unafraid and unselfconscious. She plops onto the swing next to Namjoon and immediately starts pumping her legs to get going. 

The second girl claims the far swing, but yells over to Namjoon. "I hope you don't mind if we swing with you!" She's already about six feet in the air, whooshing past at high speeds. 

It's only when Namjoon comes to a stop, shoes filled with gravel, that he realizes the two kids look exactly the same. Identical twin sisters, it seems. They're enthusiastic and bright, hollering at each other and competing to see who can go higher as the fabrics of their matching dresses flap madly in the sudden pull of wind. 

_"They're my kids, my only kids. They're only six years old, please, please no..."_

Namjoon shakes his head once, sharply, and stands. 

"Don't let them scare you away," a voice says, badly startling Namjoon and shredding the ghosts in his head. His hand snaps to grab the holster tucked beneath his arm, but there's only empty air. Awkwardly returning his hand to his lap, he reluctantly makes eye contact with the man who's accompanying the girls. 

With tousled, dark hair, a long face, and a slightly smaller stature than Namjoon, he's goofy, but attractive, and only a bit young to have two eight year old daughters. 

When Namjoon's finally able to wrestle his mind back to the other man's comments, can hardly remember how to respond. "Uh, it's no problem," he says quietly and steps away from the swing. Walking away is the smart thing to do, but before he takes another step, the man introduces himself. 

"Hoseok," he says, holding out a confident hand. 

Namjoon grasps it automatically and they shake once, firmly.

"Namjoon."

And damn but he hasn't been able to get rid of his businessman habits. Hell. So what if he just gave out his real name and it doesn't match any of the documentation or identification he's used in this town? Not like Hoseok is going to check his driver's license to prove his identity. He doesn’t have a driver's license in the first place. 

But Hoseok just says, "Nice to meet you," and gestures to a wooden bench off to the side like he wants Namjoon to stick around for a while and chat. The dark-haired man's clearly at ease with himself and gives the shrieking girls a little wave, which they bravely let go of the chains to return.

Namjoon crunches through the gravel after him, wondering if all the rocks will ever come out of his shoes. He hasn't "chatted" with someone in quite a while and is worried the ability's escaped him entirely. 

They settle into parched, sun-bleached wood that's been rubbed down to silk-like smoothness from the touch of many hands and backsides.

"You're new in the neighborhood?" Hoseok asks. 

It's obvious Hoseok already knows the answer to that question, but he probably doesn't want to sound too nosy. 

Namjoon nods. "I moved onto Saguaro Avenue last week." Either Hoseok keeps tabs on all the residents within a mile radius of his house or he saw Namjoon move in, which would mean they live on the same street. Immediately, he thinks of The Neighbor, but he's never seen anyone else coming or going from that house. Not that he's been looking. 

"Oh, so do I," Hoseok replies. "Maybe we're neighbors." His eyes check on the girls often. In the short time they've been talking, the twins already abandoned the swings and are now attempting to run up the longest slide in the park at the same time, shoving each other as they slide back down. 

Namjoon shrugs a little. "We could be. I haven't met my neighbors. I, uh, don't get out much." 

Hoseok chuckles. "I don't blame you staying where there's air conditioning and a humidifier. These devils drag me out of the house and run me in circles 'til I think I'm about to pass out from sunstroke every time they come over." 

"Your kids seem really...energetic," Namjoon says. He isn't sure how to compliment them without being weird. 

Hoseok outright laughs, shooting a big grin at Namjoon. "As much as I love them, they're my nieces and that's how I like it. They'd probably kill me if I had them 24/7. You haven't even _heard_ the word troublemaker 'til the pair of them are off in the corner, plotting." 

"Sounds like fun," Namjoon muses. He doesn’t intend to have kids and grew up an only child. Yoongi was the closest he had to a kid brother, but their relationship was too stiff and fraught with formality, ambition, and skill for either of them to truly let their guard down. 

The conversation's come this far and he hasn't fucked it up, which means it's time to exit stage left before everything crashes and burns. Namjoon stands and wipes his hands on his pants again. Hoseok is looking up at him, smiling faintly. 

"It was nice to meet you," Namjoon says, and he means it. There's something easy about Hoseok. He's got these quick, measuring eyes that have to be picking up more than he lets on, but miraculously, he doesn't bring any of it up. That's Namjoon's favorite trait in people right about now. For a split second, he considers how Hoseok would be in the organization, at the compound. A lighthearted demeanor and even lighter hands, he'd excel as a negotiator, probably, or an enforcer if he didn't mind getting his hands too dirty. Smoother than Yoongi, and probably quicker on the uptake, though Yoongi had a stubborn streak a mile wide that made him damn near impossible to stop. 

Deftly shutting down that line of thought, Namjoon looks up at the sky again. The twins' chirpy laughter sounds distant and the sun is so damn hot. 

Hoseok's standing too. He holds out his hand again. "Same to you. I'm sure we'll see each other around the neighborhood. Don't be a stranger." 

They shake hands for a second time and with a final, parting nod, Namjoon wanders away. 

Don't be a stranger, huh? 

On the contrary, he's getting stranger and stranger with every passing minute.

Just before Namjoon is out of earshot of the park, he hears a shouted, “By the way, I like your shirt!” 

He can’t help but to laugh.


	7. The Gift

Namjoon is fork deep in a pot of mac and cheese with _The Candle Maker's Daughter_ in the one hand when the doorbell rings. 

The sun is firmly in the center of the sky, throwing down scorching noon heat. Namjoon is safely ensconced in his empty living room, basking in the air conditioning. It didn't occur to him the house had a doorbell, so the sound makes him fumble his book. The page he's on is inevitably lost, but the noodles stay in the pot. 

He freezes in place, suddenly self-conscious of his unwashed t-shirt and boxer shorts even though he’s not really planning on answering the door. His ears strain to hear any kind of indicator as to who is on his doorstep wanting to talk or sell him something. It's silent, or at least not loud enough to be heard through the door, down the hall, and across the living room. 

Namjoon almost dumps his mac and cheese to the floor when it occurs to him that there could be an old friend outside, pistol tucked away beneath a beefy arm with shoes polished to a mirror-like shine. 

Realistically, it could be a person selling vacuum cleaners. Or Girl Scout cookies. Yes, even he eats Girl Scout cookies. He will defend the superiority of Thin Mints to the grave and beyond. 

Unfortunately, the way his life usually goes means that the odds of his porch being inhabited by cute little Girl Scouts is less than 5%. So he waits. And waits, and waits until at least fifteen minutes have passed. If someone were here to kill him, they would have already tried. If it was the Girl Scouts, no doubt they've left, frowning in disappointment.

Namjoon scrapes the last of the cooled noodles from the pan, chewing while he figures out where he left off in _The Candle Maker’s Daughter_. Though he’s trying to drag it out, more than half the pages have gone by, meaning a new book will have to come from somewhere soon. It takes a minute, eyes skipping from paragraph to paragraph, but when he finds the correct page, the handle of the fork serves as an impromptu bookmark. Now he's prepared to face whatever horror is waiting outside for him, if any. 

Slowly padding to the front door, Namjoon keeps an ear perked. The tension is rising for no discernible reason and he finds himself taking increasingly rapid breaths. There might even be a little sweat edging his hairline. Grasping at levity, he imagines that this would be the part where the music crescendos into screeching violins and the audience are covering their eyes in anticipatory horror. 

He opens the door.

There aren't any Girl Scouts or a vacuum salesman. No men with guns and shiny shoes. Instead, there's a kitten. A tiny gray kitten with two button eyes and a felt pink nose is sitting on his front porch, staring at him.

Perhaps it would be less strange if it was a real kitten, but it's definitely not. Namjoon may not know much about arts and crafts; it's not really a subject that came up during his days at the top of the mob, but he's fairly sure this kitten is crocheted or knitted and it's staring at him.

His first thought is that it might be a bomb. He kind of wishes that he had a stick to poke it with and see if it’ll explode. There isn't a stick handy, so his big toe will have to do. 

Poke.

No explosion.

Without the faintest idea of where it came from, Namjoon slowly bends down and scoops up the small animal so it's resting in the palm of his hand.

“The fuck is this?” he murmurs to himself.

A quick glance shows that there's no one in sight. No The Neighbor, no Hoseok, no twin nieces to be seen. Instead, there’s just the bright sun and the flat desert and the hot, hot heat. And the kitten he supposes, him and the kitten-that's-probably-not-a-bomb. 

Unable to bring himself to leave the fabric kitten to roast on the porch, Namjoon carries it inside and sets it in the middle of the living room next to _The Candle Maker's Daughter_.

It doesn't have a name or a tag attached anywhere. It doesn't look like it was bought from a store, but rather, thanks to the slight unevenness of the ears, Namjoon imagines it was made by hand. No tag means no name, and everything should have a name. They’re important. Namjoon had a different name not so long ago, and one of the most difficult things he’s ever done, and is still doing, is thinking of himself as plain old Namjoon. The Night is dead, or maybe he’s gone on permanent vacation. He was lost amongst the dingy carpeting and identical hallways of the airport. He never saw the dust of Sarkosa, or sweated in its unrelenting heat. 

So the cat will have a name. He's not quite sure what it is yet because he doesn't really know the cat’s personality. The right name will come to him. It’s only a matter of time.

In the midst of his happy contemplation, Namjoon has forgotten to consider who left the kitten on the porch in the first place. Who purposely walked up to his house and rang the doorbell, knowing that Namjoon would eventually answer? Who knows that he's here? And who thinks that he is worthy of receiving a gift, especially something handmade?

\---

The kitten is watching him. It sits on the windowsill of his living room to better survey its domain. It isn't much to be honest, but it makes Namjoon feel better somehow, like maybe he's not that alone even though the cat can't talk or listen when he needs someone. Does he need someone? Those shiny black buttons are another set of eyes, another something that’ll fool him into thinking that it’s alive, but it isn’t. There’s nothing there.

Namjoon has been growing a bit morose lately, he must admit.

Despite frequent walks, he hasn't seen hide nor hair of Hoseok and his twin nieces at the park or around the neighborhood. He hasn't quite figured out where they live yet, and honestly he's not really sure if he wants to know. Maybe they're safer without him knowing too much about them. Maybe he's safer too.

There was a day where he went on a walk wearing his kitten shirt again. He took the little gray kitten with him. It stayed in the pocket of his khaki shorts, shielded by a hand so it wouldn't get too squished while he walked. And maybe when he was swinging, he put the kitten on his lap and held it with one hand while the other grasped the chain in an effort not to take an undignified tumble.

That’s not too weird, right?

Right.

\----

The same day next week, Tuesday, Namjoon’s eating ramen instead of mac and cheese on the living room floor. The kitten remains on the windowsill. He isn’t expecting anything but a quiet night in. Of course, every night is a quiet night in. The distinct lack of anything to do, along with the abrupt absence of human interaction is still something he’s getting used to. The first week of solitude was an antsy hell of lying in the middle of the floor and talking to himself aloud like a nut job. He’s settled a bit since then, gotten used to lounging with the book and wandering across the backyard extremely quietly to avoid drawing attention from any neighbors. 

When the doorbell rings just as it had last week, it startles him, but he manages to hold onto his fork and book this time. Namjoon stares accusatorily at the kitten for a second. He took the damn thing in out of the goodness of his shriveled little Grinch heart and now look what it’s gotten him: visitors two weeks in a row. 

The urge to get up and see who rang the doorbell is stronger than ever. What’s really stopping him? Would it really be so bad? What’s the worst that could happen? Either he meets someone, a stranger or a neighbor or maybe even a murderer. Said murderer would finish him off and that would be that. It's not like he wants to die, but it might be worth it see who on his old crew is stalking him via crocheted animals. 

Not Yoongi, that’s for damn sure.

This time he only waits seven minutes before stepping to the front door and easing it open. Even Namjoon can’t decipher if he’s disappointed or relieved when there’s no one to be found. No Hoseok, no The Neighbor, no little girls giggling behind their hands and ineffectually hiding behind a cactus.

The only strange thing is a powder blue animal sitting in the center of his porch.

This little fellow is an owl with two shiny yellow beads as a beak and glittering, button eyes. 

With care, Namjoon brings the owl into the house, closing and locking the door behind him. The owl is promptly arranged by the kitten so they can overlook the living room together. Namjoon stands back to inspect the pair, wondering who the hell is leaving these strange little gifts. That's what they have to be, he thinks. They aren’t threatening, and they aren’t dangerous. They’re strange, and adorable, and maybe a little bit magical.

Over the subsequent weeks, Namjoon’s tiny crocheted menagerie grows. Every Tuesday, always during the noon hour, the doorbell rings. Eventually he brings a fork to use as a bookmark and waits to make his noodles because _The Candle Maker’s Daughter_ has suffered from his repeated use of fork bookmarks.

Mr. Kitten and Mr. Owl are now joined by Mrs. Shark, Mr. Lemur (that was a tricky one to figure out), Miss Alligator, and a fine-looking purple llama. Namjoon didn’t even know that it’s possible to crochet so many animals, let alone so well and so quickly. He still has no idea who’s leaving them for him, but every Tuesday he answers the door a bit quicker. 

It’s on the ninth Tuesday (seventh was a whale, eighth an octopus), that Namjoon opens the door a mere 15 seconds after the doorbell rings. He’s been actively avoiding thoughts of what will happen if he finally meets the person leaving the gifts. If he thinks about it too much, he’ll definitely screw it up. Namjoon usually does well under pressure and is used to throwing himself under the bus, so to say, to see what happens. 

Avoiding the peep hole so he can’t stop himself, Namjoon yanks the door open and trains his eyes on the porch. It can be said with 95% certainty that there’s a crocheted hedgehog about two feet from the door. It could also be an angry pine cone with eyes. 

The hedgehog is quickly in hand, and as Namjoon straightens he sees a man’s retreating back. Light hair and a distinctive limp mark him as The Neighbor. This is the same neighbor who peeked through the curtains and waved at the mailbox more than a month ago. They haven’t seen each other since, but apparently The Neighbor’s been thinking about him. 

Namjoon quickly retreats inside, peeking his head out only enough to watch The Neighbor’s jerky progress up the front walk and into the adjacent house. Something inside him is tingling. Either he’s emotionally touched or hungry. After The Neighbor closes his front door, Namjoon does the same. The hedgehog is placed next to the llama; they’re both mammals so they’ll probably get along better. The sea creatures are on one side of the windowsill, while the warm blooded beasties inhabit the other. 

Today’s lunch, two peanut butter sandwiches and a cluster of grapes, is quick and satisfying, but the tingling sensation remains.

Dammit.

He’s emotionally touched.


	8. The Interview

Namjoon hasn't run out of money yet. There are wads of cash stashed in various cubbies and nooks throughout the house and Mr. Park is charging what has to be an egregiously low amount for rent every month. Maybe the fact that the chatty lady at the real estate agency introduced them and Namjoon had nothing but a small bag of all his worldly belongings made the landlord take pity on him.

Despite the low rent, cheap groceries, and lack of any other expenses, the money isn't going to last forever. 

He's going to have to find a job. And it's going to be the most innocuous, low-key job he can get his hands on, with minimal human interaction and nothing that involves putting on a fake face to sell something. Namjoon would rather be evicted than become a sales person. 

These thoughts are yet again filling the empty space in his mind like so much white noise one afternoon while swinging at the park. Each pump of his legs sends him soaring to a stomach-twisting height where he squints up at the clouds and gets lost in how vast the sky is, how it curves away in an unfathomable blue dome. He thinks about stuff like this a lot now.

If anything, he'll probably do well at an interview as long as his recent descent into hermitage hasn't completely wrecked his people skills. But where to find a job that's within walking distance, won't immediately dismiss him because he doesn't have a phone number, and where he won't be required to talk to people? 

The grocery store isn’t an option. It’s filled with high school employees and angry grandmothers who berate them when their grocery bags aren’t packed correctly.

He vaguely promises himself to keep an eye out, though he leaves the house so rarely that an offer would literally have to drop into his lap for it to happen.

\---  
He's just escaped his personal hell, said grocery store, with his customary single bag. Namjoon stops by the wall a ways from the front door. A quick rummage through the bag yields a cool, glass bottle. Namjoon cracks open the cap of his one indulgence: strawberry lemonade. There's nothing better than slowly sipping on it on the way home while the rest of him sweats and he subtly stares into everyone's open windows to see what they're up to. This always makes him feel slightly guilty, but it’s not his fault they don't close their curtains.

There’s something addicting about glimpsing people’s normal lives, like looking at the frozen frames of a movie. He sees a lot of TVs, some dogs barking and pawing at the windowpane, the sound muffled but still audible. He thinks about his own blank wall. He always moves on.

It’s past time he heads home. Namjoon quickly looks around him. There’s no one staring at him or even paying him the least attention. Before he steps away, however, a sprawling cork board catches his eye. It’s a free space for community fliers, from a local co-op, to a knitting class, to "a lonely man looking for a lady love." One particular corner of the board stands out from the rest. There are three fliers that announce they're looking for new employees: a local bookstore, an ice cream shop, and the community college is desperately recruiting tutors for any and all subjects. 

Taking a swig of his lemonade, Namjoon steps closer until he can make out the small text amongst the riot of colors and overlapping papers. The tutoring job is straight out; he doesn't have any transferable skills, at least none that are taught from a textbook. 

The other two are marginally more appealing. They're both sales jobs, but he can't afford to be choosy, and neither are retail. Glancing surreptitiously to either side, Namjoon tugs the tacks from the tattered corners of both fliers and folds the sheets into neat squares, which he slips into his back pocket. 

Home is a welcome sight after braving the bustle of the grocery store. Namjoon pulls out his key ring to let himself in and is distracted by the tacky, battered keychain that was already attached when the realtor gave it to him. It’s a rubber smiley face. When he first saw it, the smiley didn’t leave much of an impact on his numb brain. Now he likes to think of it as a good omen. He returns the dumb thing’s smile.

After dinner, he exchanges jeans for a pair of comfortable sweat pants. 

The fliers crinkle as he folds his jeans. He retrieves them as he settles down in the pool of three blankets that serve as a bed in the corner and carefully smooths them out in the dim light of the setting sun filtering through the window. 

On top is The Scoop. The flier is a disorganized mess, obviously done by hand in neon marker. They’re looking for a “scoop-tastic” employee who can “toss frozen dairy products like they’ve insulted your mother!” The picture is a stylized cartoon of an employee chucking scoops of ice cream like MLB fastballs at excited children’s sugar cones. All in all, it sounds a little too exciting.

The other flier is newer. It’s less creased and bearing fewer holes in the corners. In restrained handwriting, it declares that The Pied Piper, a used book store, is looking for a full-time book lover to help organize, record, and stock inventory and work the cash register. Depending on their long-term plans, the new hire may be trained to appraise and purchase used books on behalf of the store. 

Namjoon traces a finger down the paper, over the grainy picture of a humble storefront, and down to the phone number listed at the bottom. They’re open 9-6 every day but Sunday and Monday. It’s Friday. It was just before five when he left the grocery store, a fact he knows thanks to the upset woman on the phone in front of him in line. If he hurries, he’ll be able to call and ask about the job before they close for the day. 

It’s with this now unusual urgency burning in his veins that Namjoon reaches his hand out to grab his phone. 

A phone he realizes he doesn’t have, dropping his hand and feeling foolish. He has no means of communication and public-use phones are relics of the past. 

Exhaling hard, Namjoon violently throws the flier away and turns to face the wall, yanking the blankets over his shoulders. The paper flutters and lands with a quiet sound in the otherwise silent room. Without a phone, without friends or family, without a job, he’s practically a non-person. Does he even exist on this shitty, hot street, in this ugly house, in a town that no one’s heard of? 

Any minute, he’s going to wake up encased in silk sheets, a millstone of horrific guilt and responsibility dragging him into the dirt. His designer suits will be hanging in his closet, in order of dark to light. The fabric will settle over his shoulders, soft and tailored, draping him in darkness and class. Yoongi will be waiting in his office, prim and restrained behind blank, shuttered eyes. He sees his favorite handgun and he mentally takes it apart step by step, cleaning the moving parts, and reassembling it without a pause. The sharp recoil presses against his calloused hands while the sound echoes in his ears, he shakes the hand of shark-like Kwon Jiyong, “It’s taken care of, Mr. Kim,” the mirror, the sink, the traitorous creases in his hands, the damning space beneath his fingernails. 

Namjoon rips the blankets off and flings himself into the middle of the room. The flier crumples beneath his knee. Panting, he rocks back and snatches it. Before he fully comprehends what’s happening, he’s shoving abused sneakers onto his feet, clutching his keys so hard the teeth imprint into the fleshy meat of his palm, shoving a crocheted kitten into his pocket, and marching down Saguaro Avenue in his kitten t-shirt and sweatpants like he’s being pulled steadily on a string. 

The Pied Piper is three blocks west of the grocery store. Its storefront is weathered, tan brick, exactly like every other business in the area. The name sweeps across the front window and above the door in curving, gilded letters. Namjoon has no idea what time it is, but the lights are on. Without giving himself a chance to back out, he pulls the door open, flier still in hand, and steps inside.

The lighting is dimmer than the outside suggested. The droopy black awnings over the windows cut most of the sunlight. The bookshelves tower to beams visible in the ceiling and leave a narrow aisle down the middle that ends in a gloomy counter that’s currently unattended. Multicolored stacks of books crowd the bottom of the bookshelves, leaving little room to walk. 

Back then, he never would’ve entered a space like this. There are too many hidden angles and not enough room to maneuver. He’s vulnerable here and it makes him itch. Reigning himself in, he squares his shoulders and heads deeper into the store. 

Folksy music gently wafts from the direction of the back counter. It’s clear The Pied Piper inhabits an old building, with its slightly uneven floor and badly placed lighting. When he gets close enough, he can see a boom box perched on top of a tower of tattered, cloth-bound encyclopedias from the 1950s. This arrangement takes up half of the back counter while the other half occupied by an ancient cash register, leaving scant room for customers to put their purchases. 

Namjoon pries the slightly damp flier from his hand and unfolds it, standing in front of the register. He unconsciously tries to smooth the paper out and then puts it down when he realizes what he’s doing. Namjoon does not fidget. 

He’s breathing out in a steady stream, trying to smother his nerves, when someone appears behind the counter. Though Namjoon didn’t see him step in, the man likely came from the tightly packed shelves that jut behind the counter. 

“Hello,” the stranger says. He’s got big glasses, a hair color that’s difficult to determine under the dim, yellow lights, a rumpled sweater, and a slight smile. Before Namjoon can respond, his eyes narrow and he follows the greeting with, “ _The Awakening_ , Kate Chopin.”

“What?” Namjoon says. 

The man disappears behind a bookshelf, reappears next to Namjoon, easily skirts around him without as much as brushing his shirtsleeve, and disappears into the stacks. Not a minute later he emerges with a paperback novel that’s in good condition apart from the creased spine and slightly curled corners. It’s thick, with a cover in two shades of blue and a black and white picture of a lady in a dress and large hat, like she’s posing for a Victorian Era pinup. 

The novel is pressed into Namjoon’s hands. The man reappears behind the counter. 

“Uh, thanks.” 

The man waits expectantly. 

Ignoring the sudden knowledge that he's dressed in his pajamas, Namjoon determinedly scoots the creased flier across the counter and into the other man’s line of sight. “I came to apply for this job.” 

“Ah.” 

The man taps on the flyer a few times, face contemplative. Their eyes meet and Namjoon isn’t sure how to interpret the look he’s getting. It’s searching, maybe. Namjoon tries not to make a weird expression and looks back. 

The moment breaks when the man turns, grabs a folding chair, and heaves it over the counter. Surprised, Namjoon leans over to take it from him. Following the man’s next gesture, he sets it up on the other side of the counter. With a screech, the man drags a stool over and settles in while Namjoon sits. The counter is a little too high for this to be comfortable. 

“My name is Lee Donghae. I own The Pied Piper. Why do you want to work here?”

Namjoon’s suspicions are confirmed the same time anxiety begins to swirl. For some reason his brain didn’t get much further than “applying for the job.” Now he’s at the beginning of an interview with the owner in a kitten shirt and a worryingly blank space in his head. It's to Donghae's benefit that he doesn't exude an aura of charisma or authority in his wrinkly, eggplant-colored sweater and disheveled hair. Namjoon is stressed, but won’t lash out even if he feels a little cornered.

What can he say that makes him sound the least bit desirable as an employee? He can make a man piss his pants with a few pointed words or scream in pain without leaving any permanent marks.

The music changes to a song that features the banjo.

Namjoon glances down at _The Awakening_ , which is still sitting between them on the counter, and runs a thumb over the spine. It reminds him of the book waiting on the windowsill back home. 

“I’m reading _The Candle-Maker’s Daughter_. By Marcella Kints,” he says. “It’s the first book I’ve read in years, longer than I can remember. I want…” he stutters to a stop. What does he want? To survive? To pay his rent and buy groceries and sit at home with his fake animals and his mysterious neighbor while the only sound is his voice bouncing off empty walls? 

“I want…more than that.” It doesn’t even make sense after his last sentence and Namjoon hardly knows what he means, but it feels right. He wants more.

That searching look is back on Donghae’s face and he glances down at _The Awakening_. His expression is knowing, or expectant, or pleased. Namjoon can’t read him as well as he’d like. Donghae blinks slowly.

"Do you have any references?" he asks.

Namjoon almost laughs. There’s no one. Donghae already knows him better than anyone he’s met since he left the compound. 

An idea strikes him. It’s absurd and more likely than not makes him sound like a psycho, but Namjoon pulls the kitten from his pocket and carefully sets it on top of the book. Mr. Kitten’s ear is bent, so Namjoon straightens it. “My neighbor made this and gave it to me.” 

Instead of laughing and immediately telling Namjoon to leave, the unreadable Donghae inspects the kitten from his side of the counter. After a minute, he nods in two slow, drawn-out movements. Namjoon pockets Mr. Kitten. 

“I can work any hours, any day you need me. I learn fast.”

The folk music quiets like the playlist has ended, leaving Namjoon and Donghae in silence. The flier crinkles beneath Donghae’s arm, but all he does is push the novel toward Namjoon. “Go home and read this. Let me know what you think.”

So Namjoon takes the book and the flier, which Donghae holds out to him. He passes the chair back over the counter and shakes Donghae’s hand. His grip is warm and dry and he doesn’t squeeze. 

Namjoon reads the book. He cries and there’s no one but his menagerie there to see it. He brings _The Awakening_ back to Donghae.

This strange interview, unlike any Namjoon’s ever experienced, is how he gets the job at The Pied Piper.


	9. The Backyard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back again, with the longest chapter yet! Thanks to everyone for hanging in here with me as I write a rambling story mostly to please myself. Thanks for your lovely comments and support! You truly motivate me to keep writing and I love hearing what you think ♥

The slightly dumpy rental home has a slightly dumpy backyard ringed by a slightly warped fence of gray wood. It's for privacy. Namjoon feels private. He avoids the big window in his bedroom, never sure when The Neighbor may be watching. No one observes his comings and goings, the days of solitude and silence except the silent menagerie on the windowsill.

The backyard is rectangular, slightly wider than it is long. There’s not much grass to speak of, and the dirt in between is hard and dry. The small back porch is wooden and plain, with two short steps down. There’s a ramshackle roof, sure, but keeping the sun off only does so much to manage the heat. There are no chairs on the porch, and no grill. He doesn’t have a table and planters are more than beyond him. 

Namjoon sits on the top step with a glass of lukewarm water, squinting through the sunlight.

The backyard is devoid of anything except a hardy tree in one corner and the fence.

The Neighbor's backyard is on the other side of the fence, to the west.

Despite having never seen it, sometimes Namjoon imagines what it looks like. The Neighbor must have a decent yard, something cared for and homey. Maybe there are fake animals scattered around to liven up the hot, dry desert. Maybe Namjoon’s more firmly ensconced in the suburbs than he imagined and The Neighbor has a grill, a couple of cracking, plastic lawn chairs and pink plastic flamingos all faded from the sun. Maybe even a kiddie pool to goof off in during the inevitably scorching summer days.

Though the heat is awful and unfamiliar, Namjoon finds himself spending a lot of time outside. It's strange and nice to sit and look up at the clouds, to listen to the few birds chirp excitedly, or watch the big ones, the hawks and ravens, make slow circles up in the white-hot sky like they were set free at the opening of the world and haven't touched down since. On rare occasions where the heat bleeds off beneath thick, slow-moving clouds, he'll lay out on a blanket and take a nap. His legs are getting a tan for the first time in recent and not-so-recent memory and he finds himself thumbing the clear demarcation between pale thigh and tan thigh like it might smudge. 

On other days, he walks around the perimeter of the back fence. What was initially a perimeter check has transformed into a compulsive circuit where he starts at the gate on the west side and taps on each slat of wood with a knuckle until he reaches the far east end. Sometimes he turns around and comes right back, tap, tap, tapping. Every once and while his eyes catch glimpses of the backyards and houses on the other side of the fence, but he’s never stopped to properly look. It’s something he’s been holding away from himself, not entirely consciously. His strange brain holds him back, keeping the _you don’t deserve it_ mentally unsaid. 

Until the day Namjoon comes home from an unusually frustrating day at work. His shoulders aren’t tight, but there’s the ghost of a temper sliding through his veins. The sensation is like an ache and it propels him through the house like flotsam on a river until he’s deposited in the backyard, up against that back fence. One hand grasps the post despite the sharp edge digging into his palm. His eye is up against the gap between slats and Namjoon can see into an unfamiliar yard, is staring at the back of an unfamiliar house. 

A soft, thin fuzz of grass covers the yard like a threadbare blanket, interrupted by a rusting swing set and a playhouse covered in torn, sun-faded stickers. Grass is noticeably missing in front of the swings and at the landing pad of the short slide. A scuffed bicycle and tattered soccer ball are scattered carelessly across the grass. The house itself is squat, nearly identical to his own except the siding is a stubborn yellow that manages to be cheerful through a light coating of dust. Lawn chairs loosely sprawl around a round sculpted metal table with potted flowers in the center. They’re pansies. Namjoon’s never been into flowers, but the knowledge comes to him all at once. Pansies. 

It’s a house. It’s a picture framed in weary wood and the distracting flutter of his own eyelashes.

Namjoon stares and stares, and takes it all in until his mind reflects the evening sky: calm, cool, clear. It’s not hot and abrasive anymore. His breath is warm and it bounces off the wood and back into his face. His forehead drops against the fence and he closes his eyes, breathing slowly. 

He’s done it. Namjoon has peeked into one of his neighbor’s lives. The mental image of his house expands, rolling out beyond his back fence and into the yard of this neighbor, stopping at the back of their house, the sliding glass doors with the blinds twisted shut.

Settling his back against the fence, Namjoon slide down until he’s sitting in the dirt and looks up at the sky. Stars are beginning the peek through the velvety sky as the sun sinks more quickly than he knew it could. The light continues to change before his eyes as the night grows in strength. Except The Night isn’t here. It’s just Namjoon and the dust and the fence and the yellow house, with its well-loved swing set, its bikes and balls and children who run and play with only child-things to worry about. 

And maybe The Neighbor’s standing on his back porch right now, with his cane gripped tight in one hand and his tipped up to the sky, just like Namjoon.

Maybe they’re not so different, here.

\---

Every time he finds himself in the backyard, from that day on, Namjoon pauses in his routine of walking up and down the fence to peek at the Yellow House. He hasn’t earned looking at the house on the east side, let alone at The Neighbor’s backyard.

As the weeks pass, Namjoon gets to know the Yellow House family. They have three or four kids -he can't tell if they all live there or they have friends over constantly- who can often be heard chasing each other around and shrieking. Sometimes a ball, rock, Frisbee, or any manner of object thumps into the fence, followed by catcalling and excited shouting. Nothing has sailed over yet. This is something Namjoon doesn't want to admit he's looking forward to. When it happens, he'll throw it back. He daydreams about this. Maybe he'll pop his head over the fence, say hi, and the kids will tell him what they're playing, they’ll be smiling, and then maybe the nightmares in his head won't be so loud anymore.

\--

It’s morning. Namjoon has the day off and he’s in the backyard, as he’s wont to be when the weather is tolerable. Kitten shirt: on. Shorts: short. The Yellow House kids are yelling, followed by harried yelling, and then everything goes quiet and the familiar sound of the sliding door slamming shut carries over the fence. Everything is left in flat silence. Even the single bird that roosts in the tree is silent, perhaps out looking for breakfast.

Namjoon sips from his glass of water to combat the dry, dusty air parching his throat. 

It could be minutes or maybe an hour when Namjoon’s ears perk. The Neighbor. There are sounds coming from his backyard, the sound transmitted perfectly through the still air. The sliding door opens and closes, and there are footsteps with the awkward third beat of a cane on the wooden porch. The Neighbor isn’t working, or doesn’t work. He’s home. More importantly, he’s in his backyard, just like Namjoon. 

Does he know that Namjoon’s out here? Is he looking this way? Is he inspecting his theoretical plastic flamingoes, checking the bleached colors of their faded wings and beaks?

A type of nervous energy bubbles up inside him, the closes to giddiness Namjoon has experience since he walked away from the compound under the watchful eye of the moon. The Neighbor, The Neighbor, the giver of gifts, the maker of animals, the man with a cane and crochet hooks. Now’s his chance to meet him. It would be so easy. All he has to do is call out and his voice will go over and through the fence, squeezing through the gaps in bits and pieces until it reemerges on the other side, whole and complete in The Neighbor’s ears. He can walk over, be seen and see The Neighbor in return. 

Strength shoots to Namjoon’s legs. His thighs tense, lifting him from his seat and halfway to standing.

He freezes. 

Falls back into place.

His heart is pounding and his hand anchors him to the step.

The Neighbor has been a mythical figure for so long, a presence that resides in Namjoon’s head as much as out. To put a face to the name. A voice to the face. 

Namjoon speaks to people. His job requires it, even if he tries to convince Donghae to keep him away from the front counter most days. His home, however, is cocooned in silence and solitude. He’s wrapped in wool, muffled from the outside world that daren’t intrude. Speaking to The Neighbor beckons the word inside his backyard, his space. 

Can he do that? 

His hand jerks away from the step and knocks the water glass over, sending it clattering down the two short steps to loll in the dirt. 

“Shit.”

The water seeps into the parched wood and ground in an instant. The glass is unbroken. Namjoon stares at it as it settles.

“You are my only sun, one and only in the world. I bloomed for you, but I’m still thirsty.”

The clear voice floats over the fence in an unfamiliar rhythm. Donghae plays odd and obscure music at The Pied Piper, but it’s so different from a warm, human voice only a handful of feet away. 

The melody changes, making it clear he’s jumped to somewhere else in the song. “Everybody says it’s over but I can’t stop this. I can’t tell whether it’s sweat or tears…” The singing trails off into humming, like the singer isn’t quite sure of the melody or the words. What must be the cane taps impatiently on the deck. 

Holding his breath, Namjoon slowly pushes up from his seat. The distance to the fence is 15 long feet, the easiest, yet most difficult trek he’s made. It would be easier if it were agonizing, but Namjoon’s feet carry him there in few short, surreal seconds. The tips of his fingers reach out and touch the gray wood of the fence. He automatically looks up, like The Neighbor will be there, but he can’t see anything other than wood and sky. 

The cane taps a few more times. A sigh. The humming picks up again. It’s unsteady this time, and Namjoon listens as The Neighbor moves, thumping down the steps that must match those on his own back porch, and then his sounds are lost in the dirt. 

Namjoon sways where he’s standing. His weight shifts to the other foot and he catches a glimpse of The Neighbor’s backyard through a gap.

Instantly, he closes his eyes. He can’t look yet.

The tree’s branches are rustling in the slight breeze, its solitary resident chirping in precise, regular intervals. His breath is too loud and he can hear the echoes of the bones in his legs creaking like they need oiled. He’s already old on the inside. The shuffling, which had been too quiet to hear before, is suddenly close. It’s just on the other side of the fence. The Neighbor is here. His presence changes the very air. It’s shared now.

Namjoon’s eyes are still closed. He can’t see The Neighbor looking at him. He can’t see The Neighbor unsteadily rising to his tip-toes and reaching over the fence. He can’t see The Neighbor carefully place a small object on the horizontal slat that runs across the inside of the fence.

“Memories are crumbling like dried flower petals on my fingertips and under my feet.”

That voice is dangerously close. 

Namjoon opens his eyes.

The Neighbor is there, on the other side of the fence, looking back through the gap. Though only a small slice of him is visible, it’s clear he’s smiling faintly. Their eyes meet.

“Hi.”

Namjoon chokes on his own spit and begins to cough in lieu of reply. He can feel his face turning bright red. 

When he can finally breathe again, The Neighbor is still there, though the dip of his brow may be concern. “You alright over there?” he asks in the same voice with which he sings. 

Still flushed, Namjoon clears his throat. His fists clench and unclench in this completely surreal moment. Never did he think he’d meet The Neighbor like this. The glimpse of him is familiar in a vague way, something he can mentally match with the memories of a figure retreating from the front porch through the fish-eye lens of the peephole: same messy brown hair, same distinctive jawline. 

“Uh, yeah,” Namjoon says. “I’m…okay. I just swallowed wrong.” Words are actually coming out of his mouth and he really has no idea what they are. There aren’t any thoughts to be considered and voluntarily channeled down to be shaped into words. Instead, he’s just…talking. Talking at this slice of The Neighbor who looks kinder than Namjoon deserves. 

“I’m glad there’s no permanent damage,” The Neighbor chuckles. “It’s nice to finally meet you face to face. It’s been a while since you moved in, if I’m remembering right.” 

“Yeah…a few months.” Namjoon nods along. “Nice to meet you too.” He trails off, suddenly unable to hold basic conversation. This is different from the short, business-related exchanges with customers at The Pied Piper. This is even different from Hoseok at the park. This is _The Neighbor_. “I’ve seen you around. The neighborhood.” 

The Neighbor is still smiling. “Same. I think I see you going to and from work.” A thought visibly occurs to him, and he’s quirking up an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m Seokjin, by the way. That was rude of me. I should’ve introduced myself first.” Seokjin looks like he’d be shaking Namjoon’s hand if there wasn’t a fence in between them. 

“Namjoon.” There’s an urge in him to talk without the fence separating them, so he can see all of Seokjin’s face. Even this little glimpse shows that his face is open. Seokjin may have his secrets, after all, most people do. That shadow, the animal that perched in the back of Namjoon’s eyes the last time he looked in a mirror are fully absent, however. Like recognizes like, and Seokjin is something new entirely.

The view changes as Seokjin or Namjoon shift in place. He catches a glimpse of the tip of his nose, the corner of his eye. The Neighbor is still smiling. 

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood, Namjoon. I’m sorry to ditch you, but I have to get back inside before Spring thinks I’ve abandoned her. I can hear her crying at the door.” Seokjin’s cheek and ear slip by as he turns to glance in the direction of the back door. He turns back with an apologetic smile. “Hope to see you around some more!”

Their conversation is abruptly over and Namjoon has to wonder if it’s because of him. If Seokjin _felt_ his past, if it radiates out of him like a toxic miasma, outsides matching insides. “Yeah, you too,” he manages weakly. 

Seokjin limps away under Namjoon’s restricted gaze. Namjoon finds himself unconsciously shifting to keep the man in view. Their back porches are the same but Seokjin’s is cleaner and sporting furniture and a hanging flower bed with flowers that he can’t identify. When he reaches the door, he points commandingly through the glass at Spring, who or whatever she is. 

He slides the door open carefully, murmuring all the while. Spring doesn’t particularly care, if the way the cat flies out of the small gap is any indication. A short glimpse of a gray cat leaping across the porch and off into the yard is all Namjoon sees. Seokjin’s yelling, “Spring! Get back here!” and Namjoon looks up and Spring’s on top of the fence, glaring down her nose at him imperiously. She leaps, and he thinks she’s coming straight for him, but she goes over his shoulder and something glittering tumbles from the fence to land at his feet.

Namjoon’s distracted by the cat, who’s already sitting on the top porch step, daintily licking a paw like she owns the place. As if sensing his attention, she tucks her paw away and stares at him with luminous green eyes. 

The sight of life in his dumpy little house is shocking. The house, with its dirty siding and sad porch, barren of flowers or any other decorations, is suddenly pulled forward from the background. Even in daylight it was shrouded in shadows, dark and sad. Now with Spring sitting and staring, she’s brought the house to life with her, shoved it into a new dimension of reality, one that includes Seokjin, pansies, and screaming children, with a clarity that’s both burning and glorious. 

The self-reproach drowning him at Seokjin’s abrupt exist vanishes like a shadow in the sun, and Namjoon’s struck by an epiphany. _I’m not alone anymore_. 

There’s a cat named Spring. The Neighbor is really Seokjin, who may not like him, but is no longer a shadowy figure or just a kind and startling wave at a mailbox. Hoseok lives around here, and he goes to the park with his nieces. The Yellow House kids have names, and friends, and they play games, and maybe go to school by the playground. They walk the same sidewalks. Other people pass by his house and look at the dusty siding and wonder who lives there. If they could see through the west window, they would find a crocheted menagerie. And if they could see his backyard, they would see a man and a cat and not think anything of it except, _Well there’s a man spending time with his cat_. 

Carefully, Namjoon approaches the back porch in slow, even steps. He takes care to keep his hands and facial expression unthreatening, despite having no idea if Spring cares how his face looks. Memories of silently creeping in other, less savory circumstances come back in a flash, but they’re shaken away. Spring watches him, tracking his tentative progress like a patient queen. 

“Hey, cat. Hey, Spring,” he calls quietly. Her head turns, periscope-like, as he skirts to the side of the step and slowly settles beside her. 

Before he can blink, the cat’s in his lap, kneading his leg appreciatively. She’s heavier than he expected, and hot, and he’s almost afraid to touch her. He does, though. Her fur is soft and smooth beneath his fingers. He strokes down her sleek head and across her back. She’s gray with dark mottled stripes. There’s a name for her coloring, but he has no idea what it is. Purrs rumble through her chest and throat, into Namjoon’s leg. Spring squints up at him and meows. The sun’s beating down on the top of his head making sweat prickle at his hairline. The wood of the porch making his ass go numb, and his leg is starting to sweat where Spring is sitting.

Namjoon thinks he could sit here like this forever.

“Excuse me, Namjoon?” Seokjin raps on the gate over by the side of the house. 

Spring is completely nonplussed by Namjoon’s startled jerk. She digs her head into his hand, demanding more petting.

How ridiculous. In the thirty seconds in took Namjoon to get to Spring, he completely forgot about Seokjin, who’s probably worried sick about his wayward cat. And now he has to face him again after fucking up the first time. Shit. While Seokjin’s waiting at the gate, Namjoon doesn’t see a clear way to extricate himself from the purring lap-warmer. It doesn’t seem right to just pick her up, but he needs to let Seokjin in lest he think Spring met some kind of bad end in Namjoon’s backyard.

“Just come in!” he half-hollers after a moment of consideration. It isn’t until the gate rattles that he even wonders if the gate is locked. 

“Alright, I’m coming in.” The gate swings open on squealing hinges. It isn’t locked, which surprises Namjoon. His whole life has been locked away the months he’s lived here, except the backyard, apparently. 

When Seokjin emerges from the side of the house, Namjoon truly sees him for the first time.

His presence is just as surreal as Spring’s, bringing a startling vibrancy to the plain backyard. Seokjin’s bright, in appearance and expression. Namjoon would be surprised if he melted in the heat. He takes this in and the thoughts are back. Now that Seokjin can see all of Namjoon, what if he spots his darkness in the curve of his hands, or as a shadow draped over his shoulder? Seokjin’s abrupt exit is swarming through his mind again and it’s been a while since he’s thought of himself as poison.

Namjoon looks up at Seokjin and wishes that all he has would somehow be enough.

Somewhere along the line he placed a lot of his hopes on an oblivious Seokjin’s shoulders, long before he ever knew his name. The Neighbor frightened him, yes, but the gifts of crocheted animals, that wave by the mailbox…they started something. That kindness, reaching out, the connection is something Namjoon’s been tenuously grasping, holding close, even if he didn’t realize it. Now that link has solidified into a cat and a man in his backyard, smiling at him. 

_Why are you smiling at me?_

Seokjin approaches slowly, like he’s wary of startling Spring or Namjoon, it’s not clear which. “Thanks for catching her! She’s a troublemaker who always wants cuddles, especially after she does something she know she shouldn’t have.”

Namjoon looks down at Spring. “It’s more like she caught me.” 

Instead of sitting down, Seokjin rests an elbow on the porch railing. “She has aspirations of being an outdoor cat, but even birds scare her. I’m surprised she made it this far without running back to the house for cover, honestly.” 

Namjoon still isn’t looking up, focusing on petting Spring just the way she likes it.

“She must really like you a lot.” Seokjin’s voice might be pleased.

“I like her a lot,” Namjoon says. He's never considered himself much of a cat person. He thinks, as Spring’s purring on his lap and Seokjin’s looking down at them, maybe, that he shouldn’t think so much about what kind of person he was before. All that effort it took to leave is worth nothing if he's mired in the ghosts of the past. So many things have changed, and are changing. Moving to Sarkosa was starting from scratch, a fact he tends to forget. 

The mirror in the bathroom, hastily covered by a t-shirt, comes to mind. It’s almost unreal, out here in the sunlight. 

“Sorry to drag her away from you, but I need to get Spring back inside.” Seokjin could actually be reluctant to take Spring away. Maybe he didn't pull away so quickly because he disliked Namjoon on sight. Maybe Namjoon needs to stop projecting his own damn insecurities onto unsuspecting neighbors with nice cats and actually take their intentions at face value.

It’s ridiculous that Seokjin’s the one apologizing when there’s such a mess sitting right in front of him. 

Namjoon finally nods. Seokjin needs his cat back and he needs to retreat to his living room analyze this whole morning until nausea churns through his stomach, like the masochist he is. 

This means actually rising from his seat. He doesn’t want to stand with Spring in his lap, but it’s not clear how Seokjin’s going to take her and use the cane at the same time. Shouldn’t he be holding on to her with both hands? 

Seokjin leans over to scoop her up, but Namjoon pulls her closer to his chest. “I can take her, if that’s okay.” He purposefully doesn’t look at the cane.

Eyebrows rising, Seokjin straightens and retracts his hand.

“Not that I think you can’t carry her, but it might be easier...is what I was thinking,” Namjoon says lamely. Spring headbutts him in the chest. It feels like admonishment, though it may be because he stopped petting her.

His rising tension begins to fizzle out as Seokjin looks bemused rather than offended. 

“Yeah, sure. Thank you,” he says. “Just follow me.” Without any further dawdling, Seokjin grabs his cane and turns to leave. This leaves Namjoon alone to figure out how to carry Spring without hurting her or giving her enough wiggle room to escape again. She’s curled up and comfortable, so he scoops his hands beneath her feet and butt and holds her close to his chest. A rough tongue laps at the underside of his chin, which startles him, but not enough to make him lose his grip. Seokjin’s already rounding the corner of house, almost to the gate. Namjoon hurries to catch up, careful not to jostle his passenger too much.

They follow Seokjin, who moves more quickly than Namjoon expected, out of the backyard, across both front yards, and to his front door. He tries not to think of it as trespassing. Seokjin pushes the door open and stands to the side. “Just drop her inside. There’s food waiting for her in the kitchen,” he says meaningfully. Spring’s ears twist in his direction and she pushes against Namjoon’s chest. 

He knows cats land on their feet, but he can’t just drop her. Stepping up to the door, he carefully lowers her to the floor, trying not to press too hard on any one part of her body. Ignoring his caution, Spring leaps from his arms and takes off across the living room to disappear down the hall with a flick of her tail. 

“Thanks!” Seokjin says, pulling Namjoon’s attention away from the inside of the house. It’s set up the same as Namjoon’s, but Seokjin's carpet is newer and multiple pairs of shoes are strewn across the entryway. A TV is blaring somewhere and there’s art on the walls. 

It’s suddenly hard to swallow.

“Yeah, no problem,” Namjoon croaks. 

He moves out of the way. Seokjin surprises him again by sticking his hand out for a handshake.

He’s smiling again. He does that a lot, considering who he’s been talking to. “Nice to meet you, Namjoon. You can come over and visit Spring any time you like.”

The offer is a surprise. Namjoon has no idea what to say, so he forces his head to nod and grip Seokjin’s hand for two firm shakes. It's not that he thought Seokjin was feeble or weak, but the strength of his hand is reassuring.

The touch of skin on skin is strangely electric. Touch-deprived is a subset of lonely that he never considered. He lets go.

After Seokjin waves one final time and shuts the door, Namjoon is left alone. In the ensuing silence, the heat, the dryness of his throat, and the absolute stillness of the day come rushing back. Will he be able to reach beyond the fence, grasp for more than a shred of a neighbor, a glimpse through the slats, step into the picture instead of lingering on the outside looking in?

Biting the inside of his cheek, Namjoon mechanically returns to his own backyard. He closes and locks the gate. Then unlocks it. Slowly pacing along the fence, he taps on every slat with the knuckle of his forefinger. Tap, tap, tap. 

Halfway down the west side, his shoe sends something skittering through the dirt. It’s out of place. Namjoon slowly retrieves it. It’s a button. Not a button that’s sewed to a shirt, but a metal button with a clasp on the back and a laminated message on the front. 

_I’m here now. What are your other two wishes?_

The words are bright pink on a plain blue background.

If Seokjin and Spring are the result of a wish, it’s a wish made by something so deep inside him he had no idea it existed. Maybe they’re a wish made by his empty house and his silent menagerie, always watching his empty life and wishing for him, because he doesn’t have it in him to wish anymore. Or he’s forgotten how.

The button slips into his pocket and disappears. It’s weightless, too thin to make the fabric bulge. Unsettled, Namjoon pulls it out again. It makes him absurdly happy to see it resting against his fingers, tangible proof of the morning, of The Neighbor who is actually Seokjin and Spring. 

With the cheap metal warming in his hand, Namjoon goes up the two porch steps, opens the door, and with one last glance at Seokjin’s house over the fence, closes it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seokjin's singing some loosely translated English lyrics from "Run." That song is fabulous.


	10. The Dome

Namjoon lounges in the back of his limousine, tumbler in hand and music low, perfectly temperature controlled. The soft fabric of his suit clings to his shoulders and knees, simple yet elegant. He sits alone in the deep hours of the night, barreling through a similarly dark space. They are free of the city.

A phone call full of low, urgent words interrupts his solitude. A tap has the privacy window sliding down. The chauffer is a faceless silhouette, thrown into relief by the green light of the dash. His hair is getting long, poking from beneath his hat and covering the tops of his ears in a distinctly unprofessional manner. He’ll make sure to notify the man’s superior when they return.

In the meantime, instructions flow from Namjoon’s mouth, but his eyes are far flung, staring through the windshield and into the space beyond. 

A dome of blackness envelops the limo, cuts the road from the earth, has them careening into an empty space in which no stars survive. At any second he expects that weightless feeling of his stomach floating into his throat as the they roar off a precipice and into the night sky, a silent comet swallowed and extinguished in a wink of headlights. 

A sea of lights twinkle in the distance, lonely blurred buoys yearning for notice or blinking in warning. No road connects them to him or each other, but still they call, pushing back against the all-encompassing night. Humans are tirelessly persistent, bludgeoning nature back by force and staking their ground.

Darkness flows around the pinprick lights, crushes into the limousine, bleeds through inky windows.

The partition slides up, motor expensively silent, breaking Namjoon’s line of vision. He slumps back into the leather seat and takes an absent sip of whiskey gone warm from the heat of his hand. The soft blackness of the limo cocoons him, tries to convince him he is the biggest thing, the most vital and alive. Through black-tinted windows, the endless sky is invisible. But it hovers, just out of reach, waiting for him to step outside so it can slump its full weight on his shoulders. 

Namjoon plucks at the dark cuff of his suit jacket. 

The night will not crush him. He will be soaked up, bled out and dispersed, returned to the blackness from which he came. 

It waits.

-

Namjoon wakes up.

Thunder crashes outside the window and crackles through the house. The ceiling creaks like old bones and the glass of the window jumps in excitement, rattling in its frame. 

Lying still, Namjoon blinks slowly. Silence whines in his ears in the lull between rumbling thunderclaps. The room is entirely dark except for the occasional flicker of lightning that sneaks into his peripheral vision through the bedroom window. 

Rain is rare in Sarkosa. 

Namjoon strains to hear the patter of raindrops on the roof or window. Thunder rumbles again, like its revving up to a grand finale. It’s not raining. The storm is here with aggression and gusto, but the beating, cleansing rain is not. 

Namjoon is suddenly irrationally afraid that the night is going to pour through the window and suffocate him, drag him out and drown him.

He yanks the blanket over his head and closes his eyes, seeing more darkness and more darkness, and he breathes slowly. 

Thunder crackles through the air. The window rattles. 

It doesn’t rain.

-

Even when the sun is down, it’s hot. Deep, smoldering heat settles over the desert like a blanket, unbroken by a breeze. The night sky is a blue deep enough to touch, a low velvety note that rumbles up through your chest and into still air. As the clock ticks toward midnight, the sky ripens into black plum frosted with an acidic orange from the lights of the city. A million stars blaze in friendly clusters, like so much confetti sown by an impossibly huge hand.

The moon is a silver spotlight that throws shadows, every object a frozen burglar caught in the act. Namjoon sits on his deck, feet tucked beneath him. Sweat tickles his underarms and the nape of his neck. 

Moonlight bounces off the shiny smooth surface of the button that turns and twists in his restless fingers. The colors are dead in such low light; pink and blue now gray on gray. 

_I’m here now. What are your other two wishes?_

Namjoon remembers those pinprick lights, each an island sending signals into the void. Out in the desert, there aren’t any lights. Sky meets ground uninterrupted and they roil together, inseparable and devouring. 

In his backyard, the moon shears heaven from earth and the orange city lights never stop screaming. The plum darkness is light on his shoulders. Heat prickles across bare arms and up bare legs. There’s a lamp on deep in Seokjin’s house that leaks warm, yellow light through the window. Stars stud the dome above. Its endless expanse is cut and choked with roofs and eaves and the warm metal button in his hand.

Namjoon wishes for rain.

He pictures it, each warm raindrop throwing up the smallest cloud of dust, soaking into the starving earth and whisked away by roots and clay. Rain crescendos until it’s a constant buzz and everything’s wet, wet, wet, pooled up around land so dry its forgotten how to drink. It would plaster Namjoon’s hair to his head, wash the sweat from his body, and fill his mouth with the water and dust of Sarkosa.

The button flashes as it careens through the air, propelled by a flick. 

He catches it.

_I wish._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of an interlude than a chapter, and even more self-indulgent than usual. Thanks for sticking with me! Don't worry, a real chapter will be coming sooner or later :)
> 
> I'm posting this from my phone on my 12th hour in the car, so I'll check for mistakes once I get hold of a computer.


	11. The Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for dissociation and a panic attack

Today’s musical theme is Gregorian chant. The resonating voices press their way through shelves and between spines, lending the already dark Pied Piper an ominous, cave-like quality. The chanting is like nothing Namjoon has heard and he only has a name to match the sound because it’s his job to flip the cassette tape when side A ends. Glimpses show Donghae ghosting through the shop with stacks of paperback books of mysterious origin and thoughtfully distributing them into the store’s nooks and crannies.

The Pied Piper is a sanctuary of sorts. The shelves nearly vibrate with a multitude of stories, paper and ink lives leaping from page to page. Astronauts discover life on faraway planets, warrior queens overthrow civilizations, and penitent men find no redemption. Every time a book is opened people are at once captivated, enthralled, and transported, a wonderful kidnapping of the imagination. 

Namjoon offers himself up to this new type of theft. He sacrifices his mind and his time to the sometimes frightening whims of Dahl, the painful minutiae of Knausgård, and the blistering romance of Marcella Kints. They treat him kindly. As does Donghae, who lets Namjoon read on the clock as long as he completes his list of tasks for the day. His generosity is nearly too much to bear; Namjoon may borrow the books he reads and stash them behind the counter so they can’t be purchased before he’s finished. Tucked away in a corner with Jane, the Siamese shop cat curled in his lap, Namjoon explores new worlds with giddiness and relief. 

And then the customers intrude in his bubble of quiet solitude with a question or a request for recommendations. 

Namjoon has this down to a science. He only recommends three books: _The Little Prince_ by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, _The Candle Maker’s Daughter_ , and the 1978 edition of Robert Heinlen’s _The Puppet Masters_. Not because he’s read the last one, but because the cover is rad as hell and he wants someone to buy it. Ignorant of his efforts, the yellowed paperback is still sitting on the science fiction shelf, minding its own business. 

The monks chant and bellow in unison, the bass rumble of their voices just audible in the back corner by the French biographies. This is where Namjoon is hiding with a crate of books to be shelved, none of which are biographies, French or otherwise. He loves The Pied Piper, but sometimes everything is too much for a brain that often feels squeezed into his skull. 

Donghae, in his mysterious comings and goings, has left Namjoon alone except a murmured explanation of the appropriate tape-flipping procedure.

Namjoon is grateful -the morning was rough, the night worse. Even the tranquil pink sunrise, like colorful chalk dust blown across the sky, couldn’t erase the stains the night left behind his eyes. He woke with his hand squeezed into a fist that’d pulled the trigger as blood poured from the books. All of his memories, good and bad, were twisted up, thrown out, cut up, and swallowed, burning on their way down like acid, but refusing to stay dead. Sometimes he feels like his brain is bleeding. Sometimes it’s stuffed full of cotton, flowers, and lamplight.

Wherever his head is, coffee has made it worse. His hands are jittery from caffeine and it always feels like a cold sweat is drying on the back of his neck. Customers grate on him -their questions, their eyes, their breathing. The buried, cave-like quality of the store is normally grounding, but today he feels trapped. Namjoon’s been practicing being honest with himself, and honestly, he’s not fit to be at work.

He has a hunch that Donghae is making himself scarce and avoiding scolding him for slacking because he’s picked up on Namjoon’s mood. This is instead of doing the sensible thing and sending him home or just firing him. Who knows what he’s capable of in this kind of mood. He’s afraid to find out and Donghae should be too.

That would require Donghae knowing anything about Namjoon and his pitch black past, but he doesn’t. He’s gone and unwittingly hired a criminal to stack old novels and sell picture books to children. 

He needs to quit thinking about it. 

Time passes in a colored blur of spines, dusty pages, and shelving -U’e before Ue and who knew there were so many last names that started with U? One customer, two, three. The chanting lulls him.

He’s back by the French biographies again with a copy of _The Lives of Michel Foucault_ by David Macy and it’s only now occurring to him to wonder whether the biographies are in French, written by the French about the non-French, or about famous French people. Knowing Donghae, it’s likely a combination of all three.

There’s a sound behind him and everything in Namjoon jumps to red alert. A customer is speaking to him, asking him questions with staring eyes, and he’s tall, taller than Namjoon who’s standing in the corner, thrown into shadow and without an escape. The man’s face is also shadowed, his shoulders are broad, and Namjoon inexplicably believes that he’s looking at himself, a self that’s clawed its way from the past and only needs a split second to swallow him whole.

He’s gone. Not the customer, but Namjoon. The words dropping from his lips are stiff and icy in an empty echo of power and command, but everything else feels too fast and separate. He’s not in the man in front of him because that’s a stranger, a blur, an object. Namjoon isn’t behind or above his body, but strangely inside it. He wonders if he’s always inhabited this same flesh and has no knowledge of who he is. 

He feels fake. When his head turns, the world moves too quickly. The hands in front of him clench into a fist, the sensation distant. This large, scarred hand somehow belongs to him. 

He can’t even see the customer startle at his fist. He has no awareness of the deathly cold expression etched into his face, the tense quivering of his shoulders. Namjoon spent too long honing the mere fact of his body into a threat.

The slow motion swoop of Donghae slipping a well-worn book into the customer’s hands and guiding him away doesn’t register. 

Donghae’s gentle touch on his head is the only way Namjoon realizes that he’s sitting on the floor with his head cradled in his hands and his eyes clenched shut. It was as if the pressure on his skull could force the hyperawareness out or his real self back in. 

Bruise-like starbursts appear and ghost away in the darkness of his closed eyes. The frightening sensation has passed and Namjoon is rock solid in his body, but the echoes of it make him shiver. He becomes regret. That he’s such an awful employee. That he can’t interact with customers the way he should. That he reverts to _that_ when he’s cornered, that he hasn’t burned it out of himself yet. That he doesn’t know if he can.

The touch on his head slides down to drop onto his shoulder and deliver a reassuring pat. By the creak of his shoes and the rustle of his chinos, Namjoon knows Donghae is crouched in front of him. He pulls one of Namjoon’s hands away from his head and he didn’t even realize he was squeezing so hard. Blood rushes back to the area with a tingle. Instead of dropping Namjoon’s hand, Donghae holds it gently between his own. 

The warmth and realness of it almost undoes him. Namjoon hasn’t touched anyone since that handshake with Seokjin, something he feels pathetic for remembering. 

“Are you real?” he asks Donghae. It’s a stupid question. He sounds crazy.

Air whooshes out of Donghae’s nose like he’s amused, but he doesn’t laugh. He gently squeezes Namjoon’s hand, gives it a little pat. “I am, and so are you.” It’s matter-of-fact, like he deals with this specific question all the time. “Sometimes we wish it were otherwise, but here we are.” His tone isn’t quite consoling, just on this side of encouraging.

Something about Donghae’s quiet, unassuming presence makes words tumble from Namjoon’s mouth, dredged up from his insides in a sticky, ugly mess. “It’s red, back there, where I came from. It’s _wrong_ -” That silver-dollar moon hangs above him with Yoongi’s flashing eyes and the blood that’s on his hands and on his face-

Donghae is stronger than he appears beneath the frumpy sweaters and shapeless cardigans. His grip is a steel manacle keeping Namjoon’s hands from tearing at himself. Namjoon is shaking.

“…and –I –I am too.” 

Instead of the final, ringing pronouncement of damnation, the finals words trickle out and lilt up at the end in question. He didn’t know that doubt wriggled inside and made a cozy little nest, emerging to chip away at the hard, black stone of loathing and regret that sits heavy in his chest.

Donghae doesn’t interrupt, but he emits an aura of calm goodwill. 

Everything feels slower and quieter both inside his head and out. “You can’t keep me here,” Namjoon finally says. “I’m gray all over and I don’t know if I can change it.” It makes sense in his head, but becomes meaningless out loud.

Donghae is cross-legged in front of him. Those strangely knowing eyes pierce him once before dropping to their hands. The monks’ chanting fills the silence between them. Customers don’t exist here. Nothing outside of this corner of The Pied Piper exists.

After another minute, Donghae speaks.

“My favorite color is yellow,” he says. He falls silent for another minute. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. A corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes are focused on the Namjoon’s hand, then his chest, then the floor. 

“Namjoon, you’re a sunflower.”

Namjoon’s never seen one in real life. They’re big, he thinks. Really big. But that’s all he knows. If something specific is meant by it, it’s lost on him.

Face smooth and serious, Dongahe says, “I want you to read _Oh, The Places You’ll Go!_ by Dr. Seuss. Not now, but soon. Go home for today. I’ll see you tomorrow at three.” With one last squeeze, he releases Namjoon’s hand, rises, and disappears amongst the shelves.

A collection of sentences most definitely exited Donghae’s mouth and swooped into Namjoon’s ears, but their meaning is more than he can comprehend curled up on The Pied Piper’s floor nursing the end of an old headache and the beginning of a new one.

Indeterminable minutes pass as Namjoon slowly unfolds, pushes himself to his feet, and shuffles out of the book store. 

\--

_…I'm afraid that sometimes_  
_you'll play lonely games too._  
_Games you can't win_  
_'cause you'll play against you._

_All Alone!_  
_Whether you like it or not,_  
_Alone will be something_  
_you'll be quite a lot._

_And when you're alone, there's a very good chance_  
_you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants._  
_There are some, down the road between hither and yon,_  
_that can scare you so much you won't want to go on._

_But on you will go_  
_though the weather be foul._  
_On you will go_  
_though your enemies prowl._  
_On you will go_  
_though the Hakken-Kraks howl._  
_Onward up many_  
_a frightening creek,_  
_though your arms may get sore_  
_and your sneakers may leak._

___On and on you will hike,_  
_And I know you'll hike far_  
_and face up to your problems_  
_whatever they are._

__

_You'll get mixed up, of course,_  
_as you already know._  
_You'll get mixed up_  
_with many strange birds as you go._  
_So be sure when you step._  
_Step with care and great tact_  
_and remember that Life's_  
_a Great Balancing Act._  
_Just never forget to be dexterous and deft._  
_And never mix up your right foot with your left._

_And will you succeed?_  
_Yes! You will, indeed!_  
_(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)_

_KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!_

_So..._  
_be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray_  
_or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,_  
_You're off the Great Places!_  
_Today is your day!_  
_Your mountain is waiting._  
_So...get on your way!_


	12. The Two

The park. Oh, the park. Green-wonderful, sunlit, and quiet. Having not yet mastered the timing and application of sunscreen, or remembered to purchase any, Namjoon reposes in the shade beneath the drooping branches of the few trees closest to the play area. Without a blanket to lay on, the dry, stiff grass tickles and itches from the knobs of his ankles to the back of his neck. Everything is roasting, heat, heat, heat, like a turkey in an oven he sits in his own juices and stews.

Or maybe stew is the wrong word. He lays quietly. He dozes. He _relaxes_ as well as he can. Muscles slowly melt and his back softens into the dirt. The only sneakers he owns are neatly paired beside his head. One hand is tucked uncomfortably behind his head to cushion it, but it makes the back of his hand itchy and the ground is more rocks and roots than grass. Eyes closed against the shifting shafts of sunlight, Namjoon basks like a lizard and stops thinking.

This is not a space for memories. This is not a space for dark nights and dreary mornings, the kind that drag you right back down into the black pit of a bed where dreams go to stay alive. Not in the park. The park is for the rustling leaves, the startled twitch every time he thinks a bug is on his face or crawling up his wrist. The park is for faint ecstatic shouts, pounding feet through gravel, and the bubbling giggles of chasers and chasees overlaid by squealing swing sets, the occasional crash, and the gurgling of lukewarm drinking fountain water.

He almost smiles.

The park is for surly teenagers who think they’re too cool to play anymore, and they swing unenthusiastically, unable to hide the light in their eyes or the burning desire to swing higher, higher, higher. But their friends are watching. So they don’t. They don’t know that their friends want to swing too. Swing high enough to get that swoopy feeling in their stomach and then jump so they can fly for a split second. And so the whole pack of them play at the park ironically, trying not to enjoy it too much. They come back every week.

Namjoon soaks up the sounds and the memories. He borrows them from other people. He fancies himself a background character in the long-running drama of their lives. He imagines they go home to continue the episode while he’s left behind, a static character in a scene that’s ended. The lights are out and there’s Namjoon, lying in the park beneath the scabby maple, chasing crickets from his shorts and trying to mentally repress the itchiness of his everything.

Some days are like today, and some are special, magical days tucked around curves and corners so he never sees them coming. 

Some days he has the twins. 

They barrel through the grass, send gravel flying, and trip over themselves to stop without trampling him. Their words drown him in a rushing river of sound and excitement, so different from Donghae and The Pied Piper’s customers. Sumi and Misun are sunlight bottled up and shaken, unleashed on the world in a blazing beam that burns away the darkness, merciless. Hoseok lopes behind, always smiling that crooked smile like he’s in on a joke that’s not yet been told. 

Dragged into games of tag that leave him wheezing and spending altogether too much time chasing down a terribly-thrown frisbee, sometimes Namjoon wonders if he’s found heaven. He can believe that heaven is scratching his itchy ankles, dumping gravel from his shoes, and pushing the twins high enough on the swings to run beneath the seats, just barely avoiding getting a heel to the eye. There’s no reason heaven can’t be sharing a sweating bottle of water with Hoseok while the twins show off their climbing skills by charging up the slide. 

Park days with the twins mean crowding into the small space between the slide and the climbing wall, sheltered as the other kids’ shoes pound above their heads. The three of them form a rough circle, bony knees almost touching. The shade is welcome relief from the burning heat that wafts from the playground equipment. Light shines through the platform above, dappling Sumi and Misun’s hair with golden circles. Misun authoritatively discusses their secret handshake, the harrowing debate of the superiority of plain M&Ms versus peanut M&Ms is settled (for today), and Sumi draws them into a game of truth or dare where no one picks dare because this is the only way Sumi can share her feelings. 

For a girl of eight, she’s secretive and tightly wound, like a top charged with potential but never released to spin everything out. Sumi’s smile doesn’t shine as bright, darkened by a tinge of shadow familiar to Namjoon. Unrelenting and cruel, life has smudged her around the edges. While it’s clear Misun doesn’t understand Sumi’s sooty edges, she smiles that much brighter in the moments that Sumi is dim. She holds her sister’s hand and drags her into newly-imagined games until they’re both laughing so hard they can’t breathe. 

Beneath the slide they sit. Sumi dribbles gravel from one hand to the other, coating herself in grey dust. Her mouth works for a minute, the stubborn curl of it finally relaxing. 

“I got mad at Mom and yelled at her yesterday,” she says quietly. “I got in trouble, but it wasn’t my fault. She wasn’t _listening_ to me!” Misun nods gravely, picking at her shoelaces. They dissect the scenario until Sumi sighs, dumps her gravel, and wipes her hands on her pants. 

Something about the honest and powerful feelings of children drags the truth from Namjoon. He’s helpless, unable to lie or deflect when Sumi and Misun feel so strongly every day of their lives, then spill their vulnerabilities like he has any right to know. Like he could offer useful advice. 

“I was sad a lot this week, and I had a bad day at work,” he says when it’s his turn. He pushes gravel into uneven mounds with the side of his shoe, trying to examine the memory with a veil of detachment. It’s not working. Something hot, like shame, is rushing up into his face and he wishes he could turn his brain off. His fingers dig into the gravel. Dirt lodges under his fingernails, but the sensation isn’t enough to ground him. 

Misun pats his hand comfortingly and drags it from the gravel to present him with a pleasingly-shaped twig. Minutes ago she announced that the near-symmetrical fork near the top to be quite charming. Sumi stares intently, eventually catching Namjoon’s eye. “Did your boss say something mean to you?” she demands, looking ready to fight the man should Namjoon say yes. 

He cracks a smile. “No. Mr. Lee is very nice. He helps me a lot when I’m not feeling good.”

Unsatisfied, Sumi leans in, hands gripping her knees. “Was it a customer? Is someone bullying you?” The twins are currently learning about bullying in school, so the word comes up a dozen times in any given conversation. 

“No, I’m not being bullied by customers,” Namjoon assures, touched by her concern. They’ve effectively dragged him back to the present. “Sometimes I feel sad because I remember something sad from a long time ago. It makes me want to go home and lay under the blankets and never come out again.” He huffs, wondering if that’s too much. They’re not his therapists. He doesn’t have a therapist. 

“If you did that, we couldn’t play in the park anymore!” Misun protests, “I’d miss you!” 

Sumi leans forward and stills Namjoon’s hands, which are compulsively twirling the twig. “If you’re sad, you can call me on the phone. I’ll listen. I want you to be happy, like Minsun. Don’t die, Namjoon.” The offer is so heartfelt and Sumi’s dark eyes so solemn and kind that her final command is even more startling. 

Light from above stripes her face. This girl sees to the heart of the things. 

Minsun beams. “Yeah, happy like me!”

He slowly pats Sumi’s hand and wishes she didn’t see so clearly, for her own good. Maybe that’s wrong. “Thank you, both of you,” he says. “Of course I want to keep playing in the park. And I promise that I’ll call and talk to you if I start to feel too sad.” 

When everyone’s shared a truth (Misun finds salad personally offensive), they clamber from the darkness and into the blazing Sarkosa sunlight. Hoseok comes wandering over with his hands full of ice cream bars liquefying at an alarming rate. The girls shriek with joy, a two-person stampede. Namjoon is reacquainted with sweat in uncomfortable places as he trails behind. He barely manages to catch the damp package tossed at him by an all-too-pleased Hoseok. The ice cream is cool and delicious and Namjoon thinks that heaven is melting ice cream in the afternoon heat shared with friends who know your secrets, or at least the important bits.

In the park, Namjoon rediscovers suffering, feels it in a way he hasn’t yet. It comes as somewhat of a shock that there are new types of pain floating in the ether, waiting for their cue to swoop down and smother him.

Hell is hearing that the twins he’s beginning to know and can’t help but to love have seen too much hardship. Born to unfit parents and shuttled to grandparents, old but doting, the twins have known loss. Hell is knowing where Sumi’s sooty edges come from. There’s a bit of devil fire in Hoseok’s soft retelling of a car accident, hospitals, and the death of the other driver, unconscious from a stroke when she crossed the center line. 

Namjoon soaks in an exhausting pool of sympathy and empathy and useless, powerless, yearning for the chance to fix everything before it began. He’s not new at hurting for others; the crash course has been long and brutal, but this is the first time he feels so keenly for people he knows. When he left, he couldn’t mourn Yoongi and the life he lost; the man started too young, was too far gone. Namjoon never _knew_ him anyway. He never knew what was missing. 

Sumi and Misun are only eight, with enough brightness between them to half-convince Namjoon a little of that light could be shining back from his own tar-black soul. 

The park is glorious therapy. Grounding sensations and tough, thriving nature call to a feeling, a hope that’s been long tucked away. Namjoon lies against the gnarled maple, imagining he’s touching everything the roots touch. Infinite bugs, plants, and animals are within its reach. He’s hardwired to the ground. Slipping into this headspace is electrifying and Namjoon never feels more alive and vital than when he’s roasting in the sun, breathing in the dust and faint tang of crushed grass, eyeing the squirrels gnawing and scrabbling above him. Life is where the sun is, bug bites and peeling sun burn included. 

When the sun begins to set, the sky is awash with more colors than a painter’s palette. The brilliant reds and delicate purples are painful in their beauty, the sensation nearly as novel as empathy. Namjoon sits in an abandoned swing, swaying gently and staring, transfixed. The air cools until goosebumps ripple up his arms and the back of his neck. Still, he watches until the colors meld and fade into dusky blue dappled with stars and silvery clouds. That moon, the giant eye that’s been his sun for too long, watches back. 

Namjoon returns home under its cold light. He’s no longer a night creature, and the park belongs to the daylight. When he returns, it will be under the light of three redeeming suns.


End file.
